2-NRLF 


B    4    Ibb    Sflfl 


BERKELEY\ 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF     I 
CALIFORNIA^/ 

EARTH 

SCIENCES 

LIBRARY 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS 


HUGH     MILLER 


THE 


wifl 


HUGH       MILLER 

i 

BY    PETEE    BAYN"E,     M.   A., 


which    Hugh    Miller 


VOL.    I. 


BOSTON : 
TJLr)    j±  ^r  r>     LIISTCOL 

59     W  A  S  H  I  N  OT  O  1C     STREET. 

NEW     YORK:     SHELDON    AND     COMPANY. 

CINCINNATI :   GEO.  S.  BLANCHARD  &  CO. 

1871. 


EARTH 

SCIENCE 

LIBRARY 


ROCKWELL  &  CHURCHILL,  STEREOTVPERS  AND  PRINTERS, 
122  Washington  Street,  Boston. 


PUBLISHERS'     PREFATORY     NOTE 


AMERICAN    EDITION. 


Y  special  arrangement   with    the    family   of   Mr.    Miller, 
the  publishers  are  gratified  in  being  able  to  present  to  the 
American   reader  Mr.  Bay  lie's  very  interesting  Life  and 
Letters  of  Hugh  Miller,  whose  works  they  have  previously 
published. 

The  works  of  Hugh  Miller  have  had  quite  as  large  a  circle  of 
readers  in  America  as  in  Great  Britain,  and  nowhere  has  his  genius 
been  more  admired,  or  his  sudden  death  more  sincerely  deplored.  It 
was  known  soon  after  his  decease  that  to  Peter  Bayne,  Esq.,  was  en- 
trusted the  duty  of  preparing  his  biography.  The  work  could  have 
fallen  to  no  better  hands ;  for  Mr.  Bayne,  in  the  biographic  sketches 
of  his  "  Christian  Life,"  had  proved  himself  to  be  a  master  in  this 
department  of  literature.  He  had  also  succeeded  to  the  editorial 
chair  of  the  "  Witness,"  and  was  thus  brought  into  intimate  sympathy 
with  Hugh  Miller's  public  life  and  labors. 

The  volumes,  long  expected,  are  at  length  completed,  and  will 
Form  an  enduring  monument  to  the  genius  of  the  Cromarty  geologist. 
In  them  the  man  is  seen  to  have  been  far  greater  than  the  author, 
and  to  have  built  up  a  character  grander  than  his  works.  Hugh 
Miller  was  one  of  the  true  heroes  of  our  age,  lifting  himself  from 
obscurity  to  eminence  by  force  of  genius,  and  by  uncomplaining  toil. 
Since  Benjamin  Franklin,  there  has  been  no  finer  example  of  a  self- 
made  man,  with  character  fully  rounded,  and  free  alike  from  vanity 
and  from  dogmatism.  Since  John  Knox,  there  has  been  no  Scotch- 
man, combining  in  grander  proportion  the  genius  and  religion  of  his 
country.  He  was  a  greater  man  than  Robert  Burns ;  for  while  both 


VIII  PREFATORY    NOTE. 

rose  from  the  people,  and  had  a  sore  struggle  with  poverty  and  social 
obstacles,  Burns  fretted  and  succumbed  and  wrecked  himself,  while 
Miller  endured  without  a  murmur,  and  conquered,  and  enjoyed  the 
fruits  of  victory. 

These  volumes  throw  light  on  an  important  period  in  Hugh  Miller's 
life.  The  American  people  are  tolerably  familiar  with  his  early 
years,  whose  story  has  been  told  by  his  own  pen  in  his  "  My 
Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  with  a  wonderful  charm.  They 
are  acquainted  also  with  those  geological  writings  '  which 
made  him  the  most  popular  scientific  writer  of  his  day.  But 
they  have  known  little  of  that  editorial  career,  during  which  the 
"  Witness  "  became  the  most  influential  paper  in  Scotland,  and  its 
editor  wielded  a  power  over  the  Scottish  nation  second  only  to  that 
of  Chalmers.  This  part  of  his  life  is  brought  out  with  great  fulness 
by  his  biographer,  and  will  awaken  general  interest. 

Hugh  Miller  was  a  lover  of  truth,  and  scorned  all  evasions  and 
tricks  in  argument.  As  one  reads  the  record  of  his  candor,  his 
thoroughness  in  scientific  study,  and  his  unfaltering  faith  in  the  har- 
mony of  science  and  revelation,  the  longing  finds  utterance  that  he 
were  living  to  take  part  in  present  conflicts.  The  theories  of  Dar- 
win and  Huxley  and  Spencer  are  more  seductive  and  dangerous  than 
those  of  Owen  or  Chambers.  As  Dr.  McCosh  well  says,  in  his  inter- 
esting reminiscences,  "Had  Hugh  Miller  lived,  he  would  certainly 
have  grappled  with  the  '  Positive  Philosophy,'  as  he  did  with  the 
'  Vestiges  of  Creation.' "  But  he  passed  away  ere  this  conflict  was 
fairly  begun,  leaving  to  others  both  the  labor  and  the  honor  of  vindi- 
cating the  truth. 

These  volumes  may  be  the  last  relating  to  Hugh  Miller  which  the 
publishers  will  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  the  American  pub- 
lic; and  they  are  a  fitting  close  to  the  series  of  his  works,  which  have 
nurtured  a  love  for  science  and  strengthened  religious  faith  in  so  many 
American  homes. 

BOSTON,  April  10,  1871. 


CONTENTS    OF    YOL.   I. 


BOOK    ONE. 

THE  BOY. 
CHAPTER    I. 

FAGR 

BIRTH,    PARENTAGE,    AND    FIRST    IMPRESSIONS          .  .  .  .17 

CHAPTER    II. 

DAME    SCHOOL — UNCLES  JAMES    AND   SANDY — BEGINNINGS    OF   LIT- 
ERATURE  AND    SCIENCE 33 

CHAPTER    III. 

THE   DOOCOT    CAVE  .........      42 

CHAPTER    IV. 

FIRST    GLIMPSE    OF   THE    SUTHERLAND   HIGHLANDS — EXPERIMENTS 

IN    SELF-AMUSEMENT — THE    REBELLIOUS    SCHOOL-BOY  .  .      51 


BOOK    TWO. 

THE    APPRENTICE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

BOYISH     MAGAZINES — A   LAD     OF    HIS     OWN    WILL — BECOMES     AP- 
PRENTICE— HARDSHIPS — ALLEVIATIONS         .  .  •  .  .65 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    II. 

EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS — SWANSON,     FINLAY,     ROSS — PLEASURES     OF 

THE    IMAGINATION — TWO    OJT   NATURE'S    GENTLEMEN    .  .  .76 


CHAPTER    III. 

CONON-SIDE— A  MANIAC  FRIEND— LIFE  IN  THE  BARRACK WAN- 
DERINGS IN  THE  WOODS — SCENERY  OF  CONON-SIDE — AT  HOME 
AGAIN  ...........  85 


CHAPTER    IY. 

RETURNS  TO  CONON-SIDE — MAKES  HIMSELF  RESPECTED  IN  THE 
BARRACK — COMPANIONS — ATTEMPTS  GEOMETRY  AND  ARCHITEC- 
TURE— HARDSHIPS — EXPERIMENT  IN  NECROMANCY DREAM — 

THE  BOTHY  SYSTEM — LITERARY  RECREATIONS — TEDIUM — END 
OF  APPRENTICESHIP — THE  BLESSING  OF  LABOR — PRACTICAL 
PHILOSOPHY  .  .......  92 


BOOK     THREE. 

THE     JOURNEYMAN. 
CHAPTER    I. 

FAVORABLE  OPINIONS  FROM  OLD  DAVID  WRIGHT  AND  UNCLE 
JAMES — FIRST  WORK  AS  JOURNEYMAN — AUNT  JENNY'S  COT- 
TAGE— SENDS  POETICAL  PIECES  TO  ROSS— SELF-DELINEATION  107 

CHAPTER    II. 

GAIRLOCH— LETTERS  DESCRIPTIVE  OF  HIS  JOURNEY  FROM  CONON- 
SIDE  AND  OF  GAIRLOCH  SCENERY LOVE-POETRY THE  CARTER 

OLD     JOHN    FRASER — A     DREAM  —  MAGNANIMOUS     REVENGE — 

GAIRLOCH   LANDSCAPES— BACK   TO    CROMARTY    .  .  .  .116 


CONTENTS.  XI 


CHAPTER    III. 

COMES  OF  AGE — SETS  SAIL  FOR  EDINBURGH — PARTING  REFLEC- 
TIONS— MORNING  ON  THE  JIORAY  FRITH— FIRST  SIGHT  OF  ED- 
INBURGH— ABSENT  FROM  CHURCH  FOR  FIVE  SUNDAYS  AND  "  A 
FEW  MORE" — HOLYROOD,  CHARLES  II. 'S  STATUE,  EFFIGY  OF 
KNOX,  THE  COLLEGE,  FERGUSON'S  GRAVE,  DR.  McCRIE — THE 
PANORAMA,  THE  THEATRE 137 


CHAPTER    IV. 

NIDDRIE — .BLACKGUARD  WORKMEN  —  MILLER  PREJUDICED  BY 
THEM  AGAINST  THEIR  CLASS — HIS  OPINIONS  ON  TRADES*  UN- 
IONS— THE  "BOATMAN'S  TALE" — RETURNS  TO  CROMARTY  .  153 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE   STONE-CUTTER'S   DISEASE— LINES   TO   SISTER   JEANIE— RE- 
NEWS   HIS     FRIENDSHIP    WITH     SWANSON     AND     CORRESPONDS 

WITH  ROSS — WRITES  AN  ODE  ON  GREECE  AND  OFFERS  IT  TO 
THE  "SCOTSMAN"     ,  .  165 


CHAPTER    VI. 

POEMS  ADDRESSED  TO  ROSS — SERIOUS  THOUGHTS — CORRESPOND- 
ENCE WITH  SWANSON — FREAKISH  HUMOR — DESCENDS  INTO 
THE  TOMB  OF  THE  URQUHARTS — IS  CATECHISED  BY  MR.  STEW- 
ART— WRITING  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR — A  PROSELYTIZING  BORE — 
CORRESPONDENCE  ON  RELIGION 180 


CHAPTER    VII. 

POVERTY,    HONORABLE    AND   DISHONORABLE — FIRST    IMPRESSIONS 
OF    THE    REV.    MR.    STEWART — LOOKS    INTO    HIS  FATHER'S  BIBLE 


XII  CONTENTS. 

THE  SELFISH  THEORY  OF  MORALS — NEW-YEAR'S  DAY  MUS- 
INGS— IMPORTANT  COMMENT  UPON  AND  ADDITION  TO  THESE 
TEN  DAYS  AFTERWARDS — THE  CHANGE  EFFECTED  IN  HIS  SPIR- 
ITUAL STATE 214: 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MILLER   AT    TWENTY-SIX — LETTER   TO    ROSS — THE    BLESSING    OF   A 

TRUE    FRIEND — ROMANCE    THE    SHADOW  OF  RELIGION FORMER 

AND  PRESENT  VIEWS  OF  RELIGION — FREE-THINKERS  WHO  CAN- 
NOT THINK  AT  ALL — CHRISTIAN  THE  HIGHEST  STYLE  OF  MAN 
— PROJECT  OF  GOING  TO  INVERNESS — SCHEMES  OF  SELF-CUL- 
TURE ...........  228 


CHAPTER    IX. 

SEEKS  WORK  IN  INVERNESS  UNSUCCESSFULLY — RESOLVES  TO 
PRINT  HIS  POEMS — MAKES  THE  ACQUAINTANCE  OF  MR.  CAR- 
RUTHERS — IS  ASKED  TO  ENLIST — CORRECTS  PROOF-SHEETS  OF 
HIS  POETRY,  AND  DECIDES  THAT  IT  IS  POOR — RETAINS  IN- 
FLEXIBLY HIS  FIRST  OPINION  OF  ITS  MERITS,  AND  RESOLVES 
TO  CULTIVATE  PROSE — DEATHS  OF  UNCLE  JAMES  AND  OF  WIL- 
LIAM ROSS — DEDICATION  OF  HIS  POEMS  TO  SWANSON  .  .  242 


CHAPTER    X. 

RESUMES    WORK    AS    A    STONE-CUTTER    AT     CROMARTY— INTIMACY 

WITH    MR.    STEWART — THE     LITERARY    LION     OF     THE     PLACE 

WRITES  FOR  THE  "INVERNESS  COURIER" — LETTERS  ON  THE 
HERRING  FISHERY — EXTRAORDINARY  SHOAL  OF  HERRINGS — A 
NIGHT  ON  GUILLIAM — EMIGRATION  OF  HIGHLANDERS  TO  CAN- 
ADI. — SCIENCE  AT  LAST  ........  24:9 


CONTENTS.  XIII 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MILLER  AND  HIS  NEW  FRIENDS — INTRODUCED  TO  PRINCIPAL 
BAIRD — WILL  NOT  GO  TO  EDINBURGH  FOR  THE  PRESENT — HIS 
POEMS  DO  NOT  SELL — CORRESPONDS  WITH  MR.  ISAAC  FORSYTH 
— WILL  NOT  RELINQUISH  LITERARY  AMBITION  .  .  .  265 


CHAPTER    XII. 

MILLER'S    POLITICAL  VIEWS — THE    CROMARTY   CHAPEL   CASE — IN 
CHARACTER  OF  VILLAGE  JUNIUS         ......  274 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

MISS  FRASER — HER  PARENTAGE,  RESIDENCE  IN  EDINBURGH — POSI- 
TION IN  CROMARTY — SOCIETY  OF  THE  PLACE — MILLER'S  MAN- 
NER AND  APPEARANCE — A  FASCINATING  COMPANION — HE  AND 
MISS  FRASER  BECOME  LOVERS — GLIMPSES  OF  ROMANCE — META- 
PHYSICAL LOVE-MAKING — A  NEW  AMBITION  AWAKES  IN  MIL- 
LER— FABLE  OF  APOLLO  AND"  DAPHNE  REVERSED — LETTER  TO 
MISS  FRASER — AND  TO  MRS.  FRASER  .....  279 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

NEW     OUTLOOK     IN    LIFE — DIFFICULTIES     OF     PUBLICATION — LET- 


TERS   TO    MISS    FRASER 


295 


CHAPTER    XV. 

LETTERS    TO   MISS    DUNBAR,    OF  BOATH — 3IR»    J.    R.    ROBERTSON'S 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   MILLER 


318 


XIV  CONTENTS. 


TWO   LETTERS    ON   RELIGION 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

.  398 


MISCELLANEOUS   LETTERS 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

.  412 


BOOK  I. 


THE    BOY 


"  Hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain-child." 


TIERS 

OP 

HUGH    MILLEH. 

CHAPTER    I. 

BIRTH,    PARENTAGE,    AND    FIRST    IMPRESSIONS. 

S  the  voyager  passes  from  the  blue  expanse  of  the 
Moray  Frith  into  the  land-locked  bay  of  Cromarty, 
he  sees  on  the  left,  crowning  a  swell  of  green  up- 
land which  runs  crescent-like  along  the  coast,  a 
pillar  of  red  sandstone,  rising  fifty  feet  into  the  air,  and 
surmounted  by  a  statue.  The  few  white  houses,  embow- 
ered in  garden  foliage,  which  form  the  better  part  of  the 
village  of  Cromarty,  cluster  beneath  ;  and  the  sea,  faced  by 
a  row  of  thatched  fishermen's  cottages,  comes  rippling,  at 
every  flow  of  the  tide,  to  within  a  bow-shot  of  its  base. 
The  statue  represents  a  grave,  strong-built  man,  of  massive 
head  and  thoughtful  face,  who  seems  to  look  out  steadfastly 
upon  the  wayes.  Statue  and  pillar  constitute  the  monu- 
ment reared  by  his  countrymen  to  Hugh  Miller. 

Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  pillar  stands  a  humble  cottage, 
and  on  the  sward  from  which  it  rises  is  placed  the  village 
church-yard.  In  that  cottage  Hugh  Miller  was  born  ;  and 
during  his  boyhood  and  early  youth  he  was  dependent  on  a 

17 


18  THE    BOY. 

widowed  mother  who  maintained  herself  and  her  family  by 
the  "  sedulously  plied  but  indifferently  remunerated  labor" 
of  her  needle.  In  that  church-yard  are  several  headstones 
chiselled  by  his  hand  when  he  earned  his  bread  as  a  jour- 
neyman mason. 

Hugh  Miller  broke  suddenly  upon  the  public  of  Scotland 
in  the  prime  of  his  years.  He  was  already  a  man  of  ripe 
thought  and  confirmed  intellectual  habits,  betraying  none 
of  the  extravagance  of  opinion  and  spasmodic  vehemence 
of  language 9  usually  characteristic  of  self-trained  genius. 
Solidity  and  sobriety  of  judgment,  sensitive  dislike  of  par- 
adox, contempt  for  the  catch- words  of  political  sciolism 
and  free-thinking  conceit,  purity,  vigor,  and  elegance  of 
style,  which  reminded  critics  of  Goldsmith  and  of  Addison, 
were  the  results  of  his  self-education.  Possessed  of  large 
stores  of  literary  information,  an  original  explorer  in 
science,  with  definite  and  firmly  held  opinions  on  religious, 
political,  and  social  questions,  thoroughly  understanding 
the  character  of  his  countrymen,  and  ardently  sympathiz- 
ing with  its  nobler  elements,  he  no  sooner  found  a  medium 
for  the  communication  of  his  ideas  than  he  became  a  most 
influential  guide  of  opinion,  and  continued  to  be  so  to  the 
hour  of  his  death.  Adopting  literature  and  science  hence- 
forward as  the  business  of  his  life,  he  produced  a  series  of 
unique  and  remarkable  works,  in  which  were  intermingled 
racy  and  sagacious  observations  on  men  and  manners,  with 
delineations,  exquisitely  fresh  and  vivid,  of  nature's  facts 
and  beauties.  They  were  at  once  pronounced  by  eminent 
critics  to  belong  to  a  high  and  rare  order  of  literary  pro- 
ductions ;  they  became  popular,  and  have  retained  their 
popularity  with  the  best  class  of  readers  in  Britain  and 
America ;  and  they  have  been  translated  into  most  Euro- 
pean languages.  It  will  be  admitted  that  they  bear  the 
impress  of  an  original,  determinate,  and  admirable  mind ; 


"  MY  SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS."  19 

noble  in  all  its  ground-tones,  richly  endowed  in  respect  both 
of  intellect  and  of  imagination,  penetrated  with  reverence 
for  God  and  for  the  revelation  which  God  lias  made  of  him- 
self in  nature,  providence,  and  Christ,  full  of  brotherly 
sympathy,  of  candor,  intelligence,  and  affection.  A  repu- 
tation thus  founded  is  not  likely  to  prove  ephemeral ;  and 
the  name  of  Hugh  Miller,  we  may  safely  presume,  will  be 
his  most  enduring  monument.  How  the  son  of  a  sailor's 
widow  came  to  address  and  retain  an  audience  as  wide  as 
the  world  of  culture,  —  how  the  Cromarty  stone-mason 
qualified  himself  for  achieving  a  European  reputation,  —  is 
a  question  fitted  to  interest  wise  curiosity,  and  deserving  an 
explicit  and  careful  reply. 

Hugh  Miller,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was  the  author  of 
an  autobiographic  work  entitled  "  My  Schools  and  School- 
masters," and  it  may  have  occurred  to  some  that  he  thus 
anticipated  and  superseded  biography.  But  there  are  no 
good  grounds  for  this  opinion.  The  book  which  has  been 
named,  recognized  by  all  judges  as  one  of  the  most  capti- 
vating and  able  of  the  author's  performances,  has  a  place 
in  English  literature  from  which  it  cannot  be  moved ;  but 
it  is  no  substitute  for  the  biography  of  Hugh  Miller.  In 
the  first  place,  it  deals  with  but  one  portion  of  its  author's 
career,  and  that  the  portion  which  preceded  his  emergence 
into  public  life.  In  the  second  place,  a  considerable  amount 
of  biographic  material  relating  to  Hugh  Miller,  unen- 
croached  upon  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  is  in 
existence.  From  early  boyhood  he  was  fond  of  jotting 
down  particulars  connected  with  his  personal  history,  and 
for  many  years  previously  to  his  being  harnessed  to  steady 
literary  toil,  he  took  great  delight  in  letter-writing.  In  the 
third  place,  it  will  hardly  be  disputed  by  any  one  who 
reflects  upon  the  subject,  that  biography  is  necessarily  a 
different  matter  from  autobiography,  and  that  the  latter  is 


20  THE    BOY. 

to  be  regarded  simply  as  one  of  the  sources  from  which  the 
biographer  constructs  his  narrative.  Mr.  Lewes,  whose 
Life  of  Goethe  has  a  place  of  honor  not  only  among  biog- 
raphies, but  among  the  select  masterpieces  of  biography, 
may  be  held  to  have  settled  this  point.  He  had  before  him 
Goethe's  celebrated  autobiography,  in  three  volumes,  a 
work  which  its  author  declares  to  have  been  composed  in  a 
spirit  of  austere  veracity,  and  yet  Mr.  Lewes  finds  it  char- 
acterized by  "  abiding  inaccuracy  of  tone"  Goethe,  look- 
ing from  the  distance  of  half  a  century,  beheld  his  own  face 
through  a  medium  which  softened,  brightened,  or  obliterated 
the  features.  Hugh  Miller,  when  he  wrote  the  "  Schools 
and  Schoolmasters,"  was  not  so  old  as  Goethe  when  he 
wrote  "Poetry  and  Truth  from  nry  Life  ;  "  nor  am  I  pre- 
pared to  say  that  the  former  departs  from  literal  accuracy 
to  the  same  extent  as  the  latter ;  but  in  the  case  of  Hugh 
Miller,  also,  the  impression  made  by  an  event  or  spectacle, 
as  set  down  at  the  moment  by  the  boy  or  lad,  and  the 
account  of  that  impression  given  by  the  man  of  fifty,  prove 
often  to  be  two  different  things.  "  It  is  possible,"  says 
Hugh  Miller  himself,  "  for  two  histories  of  the  same  period 
and  individual  to  be  at  once  true  to  fact,  and  unlike  each 
other  in  the  scenes  which  they  describe  and  the  events 
which  they  record." 

Hugh  Miller  was  born  in  the  town  of  Cromarty  on  the 
10th  of  October,  1802.  The  occurrence  appears  to  have 
acted  on  the  imagination  of  his  father,  as  he  had  a  "  singu- 
lar dream,"  respecting  his  first-born.  The  midwife  re- 
marked that  the  conformation  of  the  head  was  unusual,  and 
indicated,  in  her  sage  opinion,  that  the  child  would  turn  out 
an  idiot.* 

Cromarty  was  a  more  important  place  seventy  years  ago 

*  Letter  of  Miller  to  Mr.  Isaac  Forsyth,  Feb.  30,  1830. 


CROMARTY.  21 

than  it  is  now,  but  its  dimensions  never  exceeded  those  of  a 
considerable  village.  It  is  one  of  several  miniature  towns 
which  stud  the  shores  of  the  Maolbuie  or  l£lack  Isle,  a  pen- 
insular block  of  land,  washed  on  the  north  by  the  Frith  of 
Cromarty,  on  the  south  by  the  Frith  of  Beauly,  and  abutting 
on  the  German  Ocean  in  a  green  headland,  fringed  with 
pine,  known  to  mariners  as  the  Southern  Sutor  of  Cromarty. 
On  the  landward  side  of  this  headland  nestles  the  little 
town.  The  Maolbuie,  stretching  westward,  rises  from 
encircling  sea,  occasionally  in  abrupt  crags,  generally  in 
gradual  undulation.  Here  and  there,  along  the  water- 
courses and  in  the  hollows,  are  glimpses  of  green  field  and 
leafy  wood,  but  the  general  impression  is  that  of  a  huge 
swell  of  brown  moorland,  overblown  by  sea-winds,  trav- 
ersed by  chill  fogs,  and  constituting,  on  the  whole,  one  of 
the  most  bleak  and  ungenial  districts  in  Scotland.  The 
natives  of  Cromarty  have  always  been  a  hardy,  long-lived 
race.  The  climate,  though  salubrious,  is  severe.  The  town 
is  exposed  at  all  seasons  to  high  gales  from  the  North  Sea, 
laden  with  mist  or  sleet,  and  even  at  midsummer  keen 
blasts  from  the  Atlantic  make  their  way  through  the  west- 
ern hill-gorges,  send  the  spray  of  the  frith  whistling  through 
the  air,  and  pierce  to  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  shiver- 
ing town.  But  there  are  fertile  spots  in  its  immediate 
neighborhood,  and  in  sheltered  nooks  the  elm  and  poplar 
flourish ;  the  air,  except  when  darkened  by  sea-fog,  is  clear 
and  bracing ;  a  chain  of  hills,  running  along  the  frith  on 
the  north,  leads  the  eye  to  the  heights  of  Ben  Wyvis  sleep- 
ing in  the  pearl-blue  of  distance  ;  there  are  brooks  rippling 
through  wooded  dells,  and- caves  hollowed  in  the  rock  ;  and 
at  all  times,  and  from  almost  every  point  of  view,  there  is  a 
gleaming  of  green  or  purple  waters,  wreathed  with  snowy 
foam.  In  favorable  weather  Cromarty  is  a  pleasant  place  ; 
one  who  had  passed  in  it  a  kindly  childhood  and  youth 


22  THE    BOY. 

might  love  it  well.  Nature,  as  seen  in  its  vicinity,  if  not 
clad  in  Alpine  grandeur,  has  many  aspects  of  beauty  and 
tenderness,  and  at  least  one  aspect,  that  of  ocean  in  calm 
or  in  storm,  of  utmost  sublimity. 

Like  all  towns  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Scotland,  Cromarty 
is  inhabited  principally  by  an  English-speaking  race,  sub- 
stantially identical  with  that  found  in  the  lowlands  of  Scot- 
land. Hugh  Miller  never  spoke  the  language  of  the  Scottish 
Highlanders,  and  was  apt  in  conversation  to  lay  emphasis 
on  the  fact  of  his  being  a  Teuton.  But  there  was  a  dash  of 
good  Celtic  blood  in  his  veins.  Donald  Ross,  called  also 
Donald  Roy,  or  the  Red,  the  grandfather  of  his  grandmother, 
was  of  the  best  Gaelic  type,  with  the  vivacity,  courage,  and 
religious  susceptibility  of  his  race.  The  history  and  char- 
acter of  Donald,  as  portrayed  in  the  revering  narratives  of 
his  descendants,  were  among  the  sacred  influences  of  Hugh 
Miller's  childhood.  The  figure  of  his  gray-haired  sire,  stand- 
ing up  in  the  Church  of  Nigg,  and  defying  the  Presbytery, 
in  the  Name  of  God,  to  join  a  minister,  not  called  by  its 
people,  to  its  stone-walls ;  the  ring  which  Miller's  grand- 
mother had  received,  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  from  Don- 
ald, as  her  spousal  ring  to  her  other  husband,  the  Head  of 
the  Church ;  the  mysterious  hints  which  would  pass  round 
the  fireside  circle  in  the  evening,  that  this  patriarch,  like  the 
men  of  God  of  old,  had  been  privileged  with  visions  of  the 
unseen  world,  with  whisperings  out  of  the  abysmal  deeps  of 
futurity,  —  all  this  was  stamped  upon  the  child's  imagina- 
tion, predisposing  him,  in  the  dawn  of  his  sympathies,  to 
look  with  reverence  on  the  religious  character,  and  prepar- 
ing him  to  become,  one  day,  a  leader  among  the  evangelical 
religionists  of  Scotland. 

Strong,  however,  as  the  influence  of  his  Celtic  ancestry 
may  have  been  on  Hugh  Miller,  it  was  not  so  powerful  as 
that  derived  from  his  Lowland  fathers.  He  was  descended 


HIS   FATHER.  23 

on  that  side  from  a  long  line  of  seafaring  men/ whose  in- 
trepid and  adventurous  spirit  had  led  them  from  their  native 
Cromarty,  to  sail,  in  the  earliest  times  of  Scottish  history, 
with  Sir  Andrew  Wood  or  the  "  bold  Bartons,"  and  at  a 
later  period  to  voyage  and  fight  under  Anson,  or  to  engage 
in  buccaneering  enterprises  on  the  Spanish  Main.  For 
more  than  a  hundred  years  before  the  birth  of  Hugh  Miller, 
not  one  of  his  paternal  ancestors  had  been  laid  in  the  church- 
yard of  Cromarty.  To  the  latest  hour  of  his  life,  he  cher- 
ished the  profoundest  enthusiasm  for  his  father,  the  hardy 
and  resolute  seaman  whose  name  he  bore.  He  was  only 
five  years  old  when  Hugh  Miller,  the  elder,  perished  at  sea ; 
but  he  had  already  learned  to  love  his  father  with  an  affec- 
tion stronger  than  is  common  in  childhood,  and  u  long  af- 
ter every  one  else  had  ceased  to  hope,"  he  might  be  seen  on 
the  grassy  knoll  behind  his  mother's  house,  looking  wist- 
fully out  upon  the  Moray  Frith  for  "  the  sloop  with  the  two 
stripes  of  white  and  the  two  square  topsails." 

Miller  has  left  us,  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  a 
powerful  and  vivid  sketch  of  his  father,  and  the  lineaments 
are  those  of  a  remarkable  man.  Very  gentle,  very  brave, 
serenely  invincible  in  every  change  of  fortune,  patient  to 
endure  individual  wrong,  but  with  a  flash  of  keenest  fire  in 
him  to  avenge  the  cruelty  or  injustice  which  he  saw  prac- 
tised on  others,  he  was  great  without  knowing  it,  and,  what 
is  also  perhaps  an  advantage,  without  its  being  known. 
Miller  says  finely  that  there  was  a  "  bit  of  picture  "  in  all 
his  recollections  of  his  father,  and  most  picturesquely  has 
he  arranged  the  pieces  in  the  mosaic  of  his  narrative.  We 
see  the  bold  seaman,  bronzed  by  the  southern  sun,  asleep 
in  his  open  boat  on  the  Ganges,  and  mark  him  start  on 
awaking  as  he  meets  the  glare  of  a  tiger's  e}re,  its  paws  rest- 
ing on  the  gunwale.  We  behold  him  afloat  for  three  days 
in  the  open  sea  on  the  bottom  of  an  upturned  boat,  sharks 


24  THE    BOY. 

glancing  around  him  on  the  crests  of  the  waves.  He  bears 
meekly  the  oppressions  of  a  cruel  captain,  until  his  kind- 
hearted  Irish  comrade  is  being  chained  down  to  the  deck 
beneath  a  tropical  sun ;  then,  the  genial  warmth  in  his 
bosom  kindling  into  electric  flame,  he  faces  the  tyrant. 
"  The  captain  drew  a  loaded  pistol  from  his  belt ;  the  sail- 
or struck  up  his  hand  ;  and,  as  the  bullet  whistled  through 
the  rigging  above,  he  grappled  with  him  and  disarmed  him 
in  a  trice."  At  the  action  off  the  Dogger  Bank  he  does  the 
work  of  two  men,  and,  when  the  action  seems  over,  is 
utterly  prostrate  ;  but  no  sooner  does  the  sign  of  battle  fly 
again  along  the  line,  than  he  springs  to  his  feet,  fresh  as  if 
he  had  awakened  from  morning  slumber.  'Not  less  charac- 
teristic is  the  steadfastness  of  his  manly  ambition  to  realize 
a  competence.  As  wave  after  wave  of  adversity  meets  him, 
he  rises  through  the  swell,  his  brow  showing  clear  and  proud 
in  the  light  of  victory. 

It  was  the  deliberate  conviction  of  Hugh  Miller  that  his 
father  was  an  abler  man  than  he.  To  this  opinion  few  will 
subscribe  ;  but  the  more  we  study  the  character  of  the  son, 
the  deeper  will  be  our  conviction  that  it  is  essentially  the 
character  of  the  father,  developed,  on  the  intellectual  side, 
with  more  of  symmetry  and  completeness,  and  seen  at  last 
under  softer  lights.  Physiologists  would  probably  have 
something  to  say  on  this  point.  Modern  science  tends  to 
show  that  there  was  more  in  Mr.  Shandy's  philosophy  of 
character  than  Sterne's  humor  gives  account  of,  and  that, 
if  we  can  rightly  estimate  the  effect  of  local  circumstance 
and  other  influences  to  modify  or  to  transmute,  the  ground- 
plan  of  a  man's  character  may  be  found  written  in  his  bones. 
Hugh  Miller's  father  was  at  the  time  of  his  birth  a  man  of 
forty-four  ;  mature  in  every  faculty  ;  of  marked  individual- 
ity and  iron  will.  His  mother  was  a  girl  of  eighteen,  who  , 
had  been  brought  up  at  her  husband's  knee,  and  had  learned 


EARLIEST   IMPRESSIONS.  25 

to  revere  him  as  a  father  before  she  accepted  him  as  a  lover. 
Throughout  life  she  displayed  no  special  force  of  mind  or 
.  character.     The  first  child  of  such  a  marriage  was  likely  to 
bear  the  indelible  stamp  of  his  father's  manhood. 

Fancy  delights  to  construct  oracles  from  the  earliest  rec- 
ollections of  men  who  have  become  famous.  We  must 
guard  against  attaching  too  much  importance  to  the  infan- 
tile reminiscences  of  Miller.  Those  he  mentions  are  grace- 
ful in  themselves,  and  form  a.singularly  appropriate  introduc- 
tion to  the  life  of  a  man  of  science.  He  remembered  going 
into  the  garden  one  day  before  completing  his  third  year, 
and  seeing  there  "  a  minute  duckling,  covered  with  soft, 
yellow  hair,  growing  out  of  the  soil  by  its  feet,  and  beside 
it  a  plant  that  bore  as  its  flowers  a  crop  of  little  mussel- 
shells,  of  a  deep,  red  color."  The  "  duckling,"  he  tells  us, 
belonged  to  the  vegetable  kingdom,  though  he  could  no 
longer  identify  it ;  the  mussel-bearing  plant  was,  he  be- 
lieved, a  scarlet-runner.  If  there  is  in  this  incident  any- 
thing unusual,  it  is  the  circumstance  that  natural  phenom- 
ena of  form  and  color,  so  simple  and  common,  should  have 
powerfully  affected  the  imagination  of  a  child  not  three 
years  old.  The  incidents  first  stored  in  memory  are  gen- 
erally those  of  change  or  excitement,  —  a  storm,  a  removal, 
a  journey,  a  visit  ^to  a  puppet  show  or  waxwork.  The 
forms  of  those  natural  objects  by  which  a  child  is  sur- 
rounded, leaves,  trees,  flowers,  fall  faintly  on  the  mental 
tablets ;  probably  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  retains  a 
more  vivid  recollection  of  them  than  of  the  curtains  round 
his  cradle.  During  Hugh  Miller's  life,  the  observation  of 
a  new  fact  in  nature  afforded  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure  which 
never  lost  its  freshness,  and  it  seems  probable  that  the  first 
consciousness  of  this  pleasure  arose  in  the  breast  of  small, 
toddling,  large-headed  Hugh,  when  he  opened  wide  his 


26  THE    BOY. 

eyes  to  take  the  bearings  of  the  mysterious  duckling  and 
the  vegetable  mussels. 

More  definitely  important,  in  a  biographic  point  of  view, 
are  those  incidents  of  Miller's  childhood  which  formed 
what  he  calls  a  "  machinery  of  the  supernatural."  About 
the  time  when  the  incomprehensible  duckling  grew  out  of 
the  earth  before  his  eyes,  he  thought  that  he  beheld  the 
apparition  of  his  buccaneering  ancestor,  John  Feddes,  "  in 
the  form  of  a  large,  tall,  very  old  man,  attired  in  a  light- 
blue  great-coat,"  who  stood  on  the  landing-place  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  and  regarded  him  with  apparent  com- 
placency. He  was  much  frightened,  and  for  years  dreaded 
a  reappearance  of  the  phantom.  « 

Still  more  circumstantial  is  his  account  of  what  he  saw 
on  that  night  when,  far  away  on  the  North  Sea,  his  father's 
ship  went  down.  "  There  were  no  forebodings,"  he  is 
careful  to  tell  us,  in  the  Cromarty  cottage.  No  storm 
agitated  the  air,  and  though  the  billows  of  a  deep  ground- 
swell  broke  heavily  under  leaden  skies,  the  weather  occa- 
sioned no  alarm.  A  hopeful  letter  had  been  received  from 
Ms  father,  written  at  Peterhead,  and  his  mother  sat  "  be- 
side the  household  fire,  plying  the  cheerful  needle."  Sud- 
denly the  door  fell  open  and  little  Hugh  was  sent  to  shut 
it.  "  Day,"  he  proceeds,  "  had  not  wholly  disappeared, 
but  it  was  fast  posting  on  to  night,  and  a  gray  haze  spread 
a  neutral  tint  of  dimness  over  every  more  distant  object, 
but  left  the  nearer  ones  comparatively  distinct,  when  I  saw 
at  the  open  door,  within  less  than  a  yard  of  my  breast,  as 
plainly  as  I  ever  saw  anything,  a  dissevered  hand  and  arm 
stretched  towards  me.  Hand  and  arm  were  apparently 
those  of  a  female ;  they  bore  a  livid  and  sodden  appear- 
ance ;  and  directly  fronting  me,,  where  the  body  ought  to 
have  been,  there  was  only  blank,  transparent  space,  through 
which  I  could  see  the  dim  forms%of  the  objects  beyond.  I 


APPARITIONS.  27 

was  fearfully  startled  and  ran  shrieking  to  my  mother,  tell- 
ing what  I  had  seen ;  and  the  house-girl,  whom  she  next 
sent  to  shut  the  door,  apparently  affected  by  my  terror, 
also  returned  frightened,  and  said  that  she,  too,  had  seen 
the  woman's  hand  ;  which,  however,  did  not  seem  to  be  the 
case.  And  finally  my  mother,  going  to  the  door,  saw 
nothing,  though  she  appeared  much  impressed  by  the  ex- 
tremeness of  my  terror,  and  the  minuteness  of  my  descrip- 
tion. I  communicate  the  story  as  it  lies  fixed  in  my 
memory,  without  attempting  to  explain  it.  The  supposed 
apparition  may  have  been  merely  a  momentary  affection  of 
the  eye,  of  the  nature  described  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his 
'  Demonology,'  and  Sir  David  Brewster,  in  his  '  Natural 
Magic.'  But  if  so,  the  affection  was  one  of  which  I  expe- 
rienced no  after  return  ;  and  its  coincidence,  in  the  case, 
with  the  probable  time  of  my  father's  death,  seems  at  least 
curious." 

Men  who  believe  in  a  ghost-story  seldom  favor  us  with 
unqualified  avowals  of  the  fact.  Hugh  Miller  seems  to 
have  been  persuaded  at  fifty  that  the  livid  hand  he  saw  at 
five  was  preternatural.  The  incident  is  thus  invested  with 
interest  in  a  biographic  point  of  view.  It  affords  us  a 
glimpse  into  the  subtlest  workings  of  Hugh  Miller's  mind. 
We  must,  therefore,  consider  it  carefully. 

The  appearance,  to  begin  with,  is  to  be  classed  among 
the  more  easily  explicable  phenomena  of  optical  delusion. 
The  child,  from  the  day  his  mind  began  to  receive  impres- 
sions of  any  kind,  had  been  encompassed  with  an  atmos- 
phere of  superstition.  In  days  of  steamships  and  tele- 
graphs, sailors  and  fishermen  continue  a  superstitious  race  ; 
but  it  is  only  by  the  strongest  effort  of  imagination  that  we 
can  realize  the  extent  to  which  the  natural  and  the  super- 
natural were  confounded  in  remote  fishing-towns  like  Cro- 
marty  at  the  commencement  of  this  century.  Teach  a 


28  THE    BOY. 

child  to  look  for  ghosts,  and  he  will  be  sure  to  see  them. 
Hugh  had  learned  to  associate  the  idea  of  his  father  .with  a 
special  manifestation  of  the  awful  and  the  supernatural. 
Often  while  the  embers  were  burning  low  on  winter  even- 
ings, and  every  inmate  of  the  cottage  listened  in  awe-struck 
silence,  had  he  hung  upon  the  lips  of  "  Jack  Grant,  the 
mate,"  as  he  told  how  his  father  had  sailed  from  Peterhead 
beneath  a  gloomy  twilight ;  how  a  woman  and  child  who 
begged  a  passage  were  taken  on  board ;  how  the  wind  rose 
and  the  snow-storm  lashed  the  vessel ;  how  a  dead-light 
gleamed  out  on  the  cross-trees  ;  how  a  ghostly  woman,  with 
a  child  in  her  arms,  flitted  round  the  master  at  the  helm ; 
how,  when  dawn  glimmered  over  the  sea,  the  ship  struck 
and  rolled  over  amid  the  breakers  on  "  the  terrible  bar  of 
Findhorn !  "  and  how  the  corpse  of  the  woman,  still  clasp- 
ing the  babe  in  her  arms,  was  floated  out  through  a  hole  in 
the  side  of  the  wreck. 

Turn  now  to  the  passage  quoted.  His  father  being 
away  at  sea,  the  child  is  sent,  as  the  dusk  thickens,  to  close 
the  cottage  door.  The  night-mist  is  creeping  up  from  the 
sea.  I  have  seen  that  mist,  seen  it  through  the  eyes  of 
childhood,  on  the  moorland  of  the  Maolbuie,  a  few  miles 
west  of  Cromarty  ;  and  no  one  who  has  seen  it  can  wonder 
that  a  vivid  imagination  should  evoke  spectral  forms  from 
its  twilight  imagery.  The  same  power  of  fantasy  which 
called  up  the  ghost  of  old  John  Feddes,  to  stand  upon  the 
top  of  the  stair,  revealed  to  the  eye  of  the  boy,  as  he 
peered  into  the  mist  on  that  melancholy  evening,  a  dissev- 
ered hand  and  arm.  There  is  one  little  circumstance 
which  renders  it  matter  of  demonstration  that  his  mind  was 
preoccupied  by  expectation  of  the  marvellous.  "  Hand  and 
arm,"  he  informs  us,  "  were  apparently  those  of  a  female." 
How  did  he  know  this  ?  A  child  of  five  could  not  distin- 
guish between  the  "  livid  and  sodden  "  hand  and  arm  of  a 


HIS   MOTHER.  29 

man  and  the  "  livid  and  sodden "  hand  and  arm  of  a 
woman.  His  imagination,  haunted  by  the  woman  of  Jack 
Grant's  narrative,  created  her. 

The  whole  affair,  then,  resolves  itself,  into  a  strong  men- 
tal impression  of  little  Hugh's  throwing  itself  out  in  bodiless 
form  on  the  mist  of  the  night.  And  as  was  the  boy  so  was 
the  man.  A  sustained  intensity  of  mental  vision,  a  creative 
power  of  fantasy,  characterized  Miller  to  the  last.  Not 
powerful  enough  to  overbear  or  to  pervert  the  scientific  in- 
stinct with  which  it  was  associated,  it  had  a  pervasive  influ- 
ence on  his  mental  operations ;  the  feeling,  belief,  impres- 
sion, on  his  mind  had  for  him  a  substantive  reality ;  and 
there  was  an  antecedent  probability  that,  if  the  steadiness  of 
his  intellectual  nerve  were  shaken  by  disease,  or  by  excess 
of  mental  toil,  some  fixed  idea  might  obtain  the  mastery 
over  him  and  hurl  his  reason  from  her  throne. 

It  has  been  said  that  his  mother  was  not  remarkable  for 
mental  power  or  for  strength  of  character.  She  had,  how- 
ever, one  intellectual  faculty  in  extraordinary  vigor,  to  wit, 
memory,  and  she  loaded  it  with  knowledge  of  a  peculiarly 
unprofitable  kind.  Her  belief  in  fairies,  witches,  dreams, 
presentiments,  ghosts,  was  unbounded,  and  she  was  re- 
strained by  no  modern  scruples  from  communicating  either 
her  fairy  lore,  or  the  faith  with  which  she  received  it,  to  her 
son.  Her  faith  in  her  legendary  personages  was  inextrica- 
bly involved  with  her  belief  in  the  angels  and  spirits  of 
Scripture,  and  to  betray  scepticism  as  to  apparitions  and 
fairies  was  in  her  view  to  take  part  with  the  Sadducee  or  the 
infidel.  "  Such  was  the  powerful  influence,"  says  Mrs. 
Miller,  "  to  which  little  Hugh  was  subjected  for  the  first  six 
years  of  his  life,  —  a  kind  of  education  the  force  of  which  he 
himself  could  scarcely  estimate.  Add  to  everything  else 
that  much  of  his  mother's  sewing  was  making  garments  for 
the  dead.  Fancy  that  little,  low  room  in  the  winter  even- 


30  THE    BOY. 

ings,  its  atmosphere  at  all  times  murky  from  the  dark  earth- 
ern  floor,  the  small  windows,  the  fire  on  the  hearth  which, 
though  furnished  with  a  regular  chimney,  allowed  much 
smoke  to  escape  before  it  found  passage.  Fancy  little 
Hugh  sitting  on  a  low  stool  by  that  hearth-fire,  his  mother 
engaged  at  a  large  chest,  which  serves  her  for  a  table  on 
which  stands  a  single  candle.  Her  work  is  dressing  the 
shroud  and  the  winding-sheet,  the  dead  irons  click  inces- 
santly, and  her  conversation  as  she  passes  to  and  fro  to 
heat  her  irons  at  the  fire  is  of  the  departed,  and  of  myste- 
rious warnings  and  spectres.  Suddenly,  as  the  hour  grows 
late,  distinct  raps  are  heard  on  this  chest,  —  the  forerunners, 
she  says,  of  another  dissolution.  Her  tall,  thin  figure  is 
drawn  up  in  an  attitude  of  intense  listening  for  these  signs 
from  the  unseen  world.  The  child  has  been  surrounded  and 
permeated  with  the  weird  atmosphere.  Then  a  paroxysm 
of  terror  supervenes  and  he  is  put  to  bed,  to  that  bed  in  the 
corner,  in  a  recess  in  the  wall,  where  he  can  still  see  the 
work  proceed,  and  hear  the  monotonous  click-click  of  those 
irons,  till  his  little  eyes  close,  and  the  world  of  dreams  min- 
gles with  that  of  reality.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  over- 
powering terror  of  those  early  times,  the  inability  to  dis- 
tinguish between  waking  and  sleeping  visions,  returned  in 
his  last  days,  stimulating  the  action  of  a  dfseased  brain. 
The  peculiarity  of  his  mother's  character  told  against  him. 
There  was  plenty  of  affection,  but  no  counterbalancing 
grain  of  anything  which  could  in  the  least  qualify  these  tre- 
mendous doses  of  the  supernatural.  He  did  not  learn  to 
read  so  early  as  most  children,  —  though,  as  he  has  told  me, 
he  learned  his  letters  first  when  almost  in  arms,  off  the  sign- 
boards above  the  shop-doors,  —  so  that,  until  after  six,  the 
marvellous  in  its  lighter  and  more  harmless  forms,  as  in 
4  Jack  and  the  Bean-stalk,'  etc.,  did  not  mingle  with  its 
darker  and  stronger  shadows.  From  his  mother  Hugh  un- 


HIS    MOTHER.  31 

doubtedly  drew  almost  all  the  materials  for  his  '  Scenes  and 
Legends'  and  '  Lykewake,'  etc.,  and  every  minutest  touch 
I  have  given  you  has  been  gathered  from  his  lips  and  hers." 
Hugh  Miller's  mother  was  evidently  one  who,  in  the  jar- 
gon of  the  spirit-rapping  fraternity,  would  be  called  a  good 
medium.  Interpreted  into  the  language  of  persons  who  are 
neither  knaves  nor  fools,  this  will  mean  that  she  was  one 
who,  having  long  permitted  fantasy  to  be  sole  regent  of  her 
mind,  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  mistaking  the  pale  shapes 
and  flitting  shadows  of  its  ghostly  moonlight  for  the  sub- 
stantial forms  of  noonday.  Mrs.  Miller  closes  her  account 
of  this  singular  woman  with  the  following  anecdote :  u  She 
told  me  that,  on  the  night  of  Hugh's  death,  suspecting  no 
evil  and  anticipating  no  bad  tidings,  about  midnight  she 
saw  a  wonderfully  bright  light,  like  a  ball  of  electric  fire,  flit 
about  the  room,  and  linger  first  on  one  object  of  furniture 
and  then  on  another.  She  sat  up  in  bed  to  watch  its  prog- 
ress. At  last  it  alighted,  when,  just  as  she  wondered,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  it,  what  it  might  portend,  it  was  suddenly 
quenched,  —  did  not  die  out,  but,  as  it  were,  extinguished 
itself  in  a  moment,  leaving  utter  blackness  behind,  and  on 
her  frame  the  thrilling  effect,  of  a  sudden  and  awful  calamity." 
The  power  of  distinguishing  between  visions  seen  when  the 
eyes  were  shut  and  actual  phenomena,  seen  when  the  eyes 
were  open,  had  manifestly  been  impaired  in  this  woman ; 
and  we  cannot  believe  that  the  influence  of  so  superstitious 
a  mother  upon  Hugh  Miller  was  not  powerful,  merely  be- 
cause he  has  refrained  from  saying  much  about  her  in  the 
"  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  Had  he  completely  emanci- 
pated himself  from  that  influence,  we  might  have  had  a  full 
statement  of  its  nature  and  extent ;  but,  though  he  evidently 
believed  some  of  the  ghostly  sights  of  his  childhood  to  have 
been  preternatural,  he  would  instinctively  shrink  from  the 
confession  that  his  notions  of  the  night-side  of  nature,  and 


32  THE    BOY. 

of  the  boundary  line  between  the  visible  and  the  invisible 
world,  were  to  the  last  modified  by  what  he  had  learned  at 
his  mother's  knee.  It  is  fair  to  her  to  add  that  her  power 
of  enchaining  the  attention  of  listeners,  while  she  told  her 
tales,  was  quite  extraordinary,  and  that  her  son  assuredly 
owed  to  her,  in  part  at  least,  his  genius  for  narrative. 


CHAPTER  II. 


DAME     SCHOOL  -  UNCLES    JAMES    AND     SANDY  —  BEGINNINGS 
OF    LITERATURE    AND    SCIENCE. 


brave,  kind  father,  then,  is  dead  ;  and  the  boy, 
gaze  he  never  so  long  across  the  waves,  will  not 
again  clap  his  hands  and  run  to  tell  his  mother 
that  the  sloop  is  in  the  offing.  The  girlish  widow, 
with  her  son  of  five,  and  her  two  daughters  just  emerging 
from  infancy,  must  face  the  world  alone.  Of  fixed  yearly 
income  she  has  about  twelve  pounds,  but  she  is  skilled  as  a 
seamstress,  and  applies  herself  industriously  to  her  needle. 
By  way  of  substitute  for  a  father's  authority  over  her  chil- 
dren, and  for  a  husband's  counsels  to  herself,  she  has  the 
vigilant,  superintending  friendliness  of  her  two  brothers, 
known  to  readers  of  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters  "  as 
Uncle  James  and  Uncle  Sandy.  These  occupied  a  single 
dwelling,  into  which  they  took  one  of  the  little  girls,  and  in 
which  Hugh  lived  as  much  as  at  home.  He  could  hardly 
have  been  more  happy  in  fireside  guides  and  instructors. 
James,  the  elder,  was  a  saddler  ;  Alexander,  a  carpenter. 
In  any  rank  of  society  they  would  have  been  exceptional 
men.  Thoughtful,  sagacious,  modest,  independent  ;  ardent 
in  their  love  of  knowledge,  and  with  no  inconsiderable 
stock  of  information  ;  reverent  towards  God  ;  mindful  of 
duty,  —  they  were  such  as  the  best  Scottish  peasants  and 
mechanics  of  the  olden  time  used  to  be.  "  I  never  knew  a 
man,"  says  Miller,  "  more  rigidly  just  in  his  dealings  than 

33 


34  THE    BOY. 

Uncle  James,  or  who  regarded  every  species  of  meanness 
with  a  more  thorough  contempt."  What  a  grand  contribu- 
tion to  the  education  of  Hugh  Miller  was  made  by  Uncle 
James  in  leaving  that  impression  on  his  memory  ajid  his 
heart !  When  Miller  first  heard  Dr.  M'Crie  preach,  he 
wrote  to  his  Uncle  James  :  "  In  age  and  figure  I  know  not 
where  to  point  out  any  one  who  more  resembles  him  than 
yourself."  Collating  this  with  his  description  of  the  mili- 
tary bearing  and  combined  modesty  and  dignity  of  de- 
meanor of  Dr.  M'Crie,  we  are  led  to  form  a  favorable  idea 
of  Uncle  James*  outer  man.  Uncle  Sandy  had  been  in  the 
navy,  had  fought  in  many  engagements  in  the  great  French 
war,  and  had  settled  down  in  his  native  place  to  a  life  of 
happy  industry,  digging  his  sawyer's  pit  in  summer  in  some 
protected  nook  of  the  green  wood,  and  finding  entertain- 
ment at  eventide  in  the  wonders  of  the  field  or  the  shore. 
He  fought  his  battles  over  again  and  yet  again  for  the  ben- 
efit of  little  Hugh ;  but  it  was  from  others,  not  from  him- 
self, that  the  boy  heard  of  his  personal  exploits ;  and  his 
estimate  of  military  splendors  was  not  extravagant.  "  Proph- 
ecy, I  find,"  he  said,  "  gives  to  all  our  glories  but  a  single 
verse,  and  it  is  a  verse  of  judgment."  In  after  life  Miller 
thought  of  writing  a  life  of  Alexander  Wright. 

Such  were  Hugh  Miller's  instructors  from  the  end  of  his 
fifth  year,  instructors  to  whom,  as  he  justly  testifies,  he 
owed  more  than  to  any  of  the  teachers  whose  schools  he 
afterwards  attended.  The  tales  with  which  they  charmed 
him  called  intellect  and  imagination  into  genial  and  health- 
ful exercise.  "  I  remember,"  he  says,  in  an  account  of  his 
early  years,  composed  for  Principal  Baird  when  he  w^as 
twenty-seven,  and  largely  drawn  upon  in  the  "  Schools  and 
Schoolmasters,"  "  I  remember  that,  from  my  fourth  to  my 
sixth  year,  I  derived  much  pleasure  from  oral  narrative, 
and  that  my  imagination,  even  at  this  early  period,  had 


BOOKS.  35 

acquired  strength  enough  to  present  me  with  vividly-colored 
pictures  of  all  the  scenes  described  to  me,  and  of  all  the 
incidents  related."  His  eye  had  not  yet  opened  on  the 
world  of  books. 

Hugh  had  been  sent  to  a  dame's  school  before  his  father's 
death,  and  in  the  course  of  his  sixth  year,  after  much  labor 
and  small  apparent  profit,  he  made  the  discovery  that  "  the 
art  of  reading  is  the  art  of  finding  stories  in  books."  Did 
ever  child  in  Eastern  romance  light  on  so  wonderful  a  talis- 
man? The  gates  flew  open  and  the  gardens  of  knowledge 
stretched  before  him,  the  trees  drooping  with  golden  fruit, 
the  earth  radiant  with  flowers.  Hugh  Miller  had  made 
what  he  calls  the  grand  acquirement  of  his  life ;  he  could 
hold  converse  with  books. 

Now  at  last,  like  all  children  of  talent,  he  revelled  in  the 
traditionary  literature  of  the  nursery :  "  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer"  "  Blue  Beard,"  "Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful 
Lamp."  Two  other  books  gave  him  equal  or  greater  de- 
light :  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  Pope's  "Homer."  u  I 
saw,"  says  Miller,  "  even  at  this  immature  period,  that  no 
writer  could  cast  a  javelin  with  half  the  force  of  Homer." 
Pope's  transmutations  of  the  "  Iliad"  and  "  Odyssey  "  have 
often  been  favorite  reading  with  children.  One  of  the 
choice  sports  of  Arnold's  early  boyhood  was  to  act  the 
battles  of  the  Homeric  heroes,  and  recite  their  several 
speeches  according  to  Pope. 

Hugh  was  now  promoted  from  the  dame's  school  to  the 
parish  school,  and  introduced  into  the  society  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  boys.  These,  with  a  class  of  girls, 
bringing  the  whole  number  up  to  one  hundred  and  fifty, 
were  under  the  superintendence  of  a  single  master ;  and, 
when  it  is  added  that  the  competence  of  that  master's  ac- 
quirements and  the  excellence  of  his  character  were  quali- 
fied by  sluggishness  and  associated  with  no  force,  fineness, 


36  THE    BOY. 

or  sympathetic  richness  of  mind,  it;  will  be  evident  that 
little  deserving  the  name  of  education  could  be  had  in  the 
place.  A  boy  of  six,  however  strong  his  intellectual  bent, 
requires  a  certain  amount  of  well-applied  compulsion  to 
induce  him  to  prefer  his  lessons  to  his  play.  Hugh,  left  to 
do  as  he  chose,  preferred  the  latter  ;  but  if,  in  his  lessons, 
he  was  "  an  egregious  trifier,"  he  was  intellectual  enough 
in  his  sports.  In  addition  to  the  nursery  treasures  already 
mentioned,  the  narratives  of  Cook,  Anson,  and  Woods 
Rogers  afforded  him  inexhaustible  delight,  and  inflamed 
him  with  a  passionate  desire  to  be  a  sailor.  He  spent 
much  of  his  time  sauntering  about  the  harbor,  or  peering 
and  prying  aboard  the  ships.  One  of  his  amusements  was  to 
trace  on  the  maps  of  an  old  geographical  grammar  the  path 
of  vessels  to  and  from  the  countries  visited  by  his  father  or  by 
Uncle  Sandy.  He  began  to  compose  before  he  could  write. 
•u  I  was  in  the  habit,"  he  says,  in  the  account  of  his  life  previ- 
ously referred  to,  "  of  quitting  my  school  companions  for 
the  sea-shore,  where  I  would  saunter  for  whole  hours,  pour- 
ing out  long  blank  verse  effusions  (rhyme  was  a  discovery 
of  after  date)  about  sea-fights,  storms,  ghosts,  and  desert 
islands.  These  effusions  were  no  sooner  brought  to  a  close 
than  forgotten ;  and  no  one  knew  anything  of  them  but 
myself ;  for  I  had  not  yet  attained  the  art  of  writing,  and  I 
could  compose  only  when  alone."  That  passion  for  linguis- 
tic expression,  —  that  rapture  in  fitting  thought  and  emo- 
tion to  words,  —  by  which  nature  seems  to  point  out  the 
born  literary  man,  was  already  characteristic  of  Miller. 

Following  this  child,  whose  very  amusements  are  intel- 
lectual, into  the  school-room,  we  perceive  that  he  is  in  a 
fair  way  to  earn  the  reputation  of  dunce.  Accustomed  to 
learn  by  the  eye,  —  to  stray  down  vistas  of  picture  con- 
structed for  him  by  his  imagination  from  the  materials  of 
Ms  favorite  books,  —  he  takes  no  interest  in  the  mechanical 


SCHOOL.  37 

% 

operations  of  memory.  The  Latin  Rudiments  in  particular 
prove  incapable  of  imaginative  illumination.  The  sluggard 
schoolmaster  never  tells  him  that,  if  he  be  but  brave  enough 
to  grope  for  a  time  as  through  a  dark  passage,  the  classic 
wonderland  will  open  on  his  sight.  An  intelligent  and 
spirited  boy,  to  work  heartily  at  his  tasks,  must  know  what 
he  is  about,  and  have  some  conception  of  the  guerdon  which 
is  to  reward  his  toil.  It  never  occurs  to  this  schoolmaster 
that  lie  may.be  the  dunce,  stolidly  inapprehensive  of  the  re- 
quirements of  the  case,  and  of  the  nature  of  his  duty 
towards  his  peculiar  pupil.  He  takes  the  more  obvious, 
comfortable,  and  human-natural  course  of  deciding  that 
Hugh's  uncles  have  overrated  his  abilities,  and  that  he  is  a 
mere  ordinary  dullard. 

Miller's  trifling  proved  infectious.  He  had  one  day,  on 
some  impulse  of  the  moment,  taken  to  relating,  to  the  boy 
who  sat  next  him,  the  adventures  of  Sir  William  Wallace. 
A  group  of  fascinated  listeners  soon  hung  round  the  inter- 
esting dunce.  To  narratives  from  blind  Harry  succeeded 
tales  from  Cook  and  Anson ;  and  when  these  were  ex- 
hausted imagination  was  called  upon  to  supply  the  article 
in  request.  The  improvising  practice  he  had  enjoyed  in 
his  solitary  walks  now  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  he  re- 
galed his  auditors  with 

boyish  histories, 

Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues. 

*'  In  a  short  time," — these  are  his  own  words,  —  "my 
narratives  had  charmed  the  very  shadow  of  discipline  out  of 
the  class."  In  his  English  reading  lessons  he  appeared  to 
some  advantage,  the  master  contriving  to  make  out  that  he 
could  distinguish  between  good  and  bad  in  style ;  but  on 
the  whole  he  looked  upon  school  attendance  as  a  mere  cur- 


38  THE    BOY. 

tailment  of  his  freedom,  made  no  progress  whatever  in  spell- 
ing or  parsing,  and  in  Latin  failed  utterly. 

In  some  respects,  —  always  excepting  those  for  which  it 
was  specially  intended,  —  the  school  was  not  amiss.  In  the 
company  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  boys  and  girls,  there  is 
likely  to  be  not  a  little  that  will  contribute  to  mental  and 
physical  development.  From  the  windows  could  be  seen  at 
all  hours  ships  and  boats,  entering  or  leaving  the  harbor ; 
at  certain  seasons  the  turf  before  the  door  glittered  with 
myriads  of  herrings,  the  air  became  alive  with  bustle  of 
curing  operations  ;  a  pig- slaughtering  establishment  was  at 
hand,  where  Hugh,  turning  characteristically  from  the  slay- 
ing processes,  could  look  inquiringly  into  the  mysteries  of 
porcine  anatomy  ;  and  there  was  a  chance,  at  any  moment, 
of  taking  part  in  a  glorious  expedition  sent  forth  to  exact, 
arte  vel  Marte,  the  tribute  of  peats  which  the  boatmen  of 
Boss,  as  they  arrived  with  their  cargoes,  were  bound  to  pay 
to  the  school.  An  annual  cock-fight  was  celebrated  by  the 
boys  and  their  teacher  ;  but  in  this  he  took  no  more  inter- 
est than  in  the  killing  of  the  pigs ;  the  tenderness  he  had 
derived  from  his  father  forbade  him. 

In  his  tenth  year  the  spell  cast  over  his  imagination  by 
the  narratives  of  the  sea-captains  had  been  broken.  He 
had  read  "  The  Adventures  of  Sir  William  Wallace,"  by  the 
Scottish  Homer  of  the  fifteenth  century,  of  whom  we  know 
only  that  his  name  was  Harry,  that  he  was  blind,  that  he 
earned  his  bread  by  repeating  his  poetry  in  the  laird's  hall 
and  by  the  farmer's  ingle,  and  that  he  professed  to  base  his 
narrative  on  a  history  of  Wallace,  written  in  Latin  by  his 
chaplain,  named  Blair.  The  poem  is  Homerically  crowded 
with  incident,  and  its  hero-worship  of  Wallace  is  as  fervent 
as  Homer's  of  Odysseus.  There  is  no  trace  of  that  senti- 
mental delicacy  which  glows  in  the  chivalrous  romances  of 
the  nineteenth  century ;  no  cosmopolitan  sympathy ;  not 


BLIND    HARRY.  39 

the  faintest  surmise  that  anything  can  be  said  on  the  other 
side  of  the  question.  National  bards  are  ruthless  partisans, 
from  "  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest,"  downwards.  Homer 
does  not  apologize  for  Ulysses  when  he  lays  waste  the  town 
of  the  harmless  Cyconians,  and  distributes  their  goods, 
wives,  and  children  among  his  followers.  Homer  has  not 
one  tear  of  pity  for  the  tortured  Melanthius,  tortured  for 
no  fault  but  his  courage,  or  for  the  female  slaves,  cruelly 
murdered  for  not  having  been  inconceivably  faithful  to  their 
master  and  mistress  ;  and  it  never  occurs  to  him  as  possi- 
ble that  any  one  can  think  the  slaughter  of  the  suitors 
themselves,  for  the  sole  fault  of  continuing  to  pay  their 
addresses  to  a  woman  who  would  not  frankly  say  No,  and 
whose  husband,  they  reasonably  trusted,  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea,  rather  startling  in  its  sternness.  Compare 
the  return  of  Odysseus  with  the  return  of  Enoch  Arden, 
who,  by  Homeric  law,  ought  to  have  cut  down  his  Annie 
with  one  blow,  and  her  Philip  Kay  with  another,  and  you 
will  perceive  the  difference,  in  what  may  be  called  emo- 
tional atmosphere,  between  the  time  of  Tennyson  and 
those  periods  of  national  life  in  which  poems  like  Homer's 
"  Odyssey,"  and  Blind  Harry's  "  Wallace,"  come  into  exist- 
ence. In  general  poetical  capacity  the  Scottish  minstrel 
is  incomparably  inferior  to  Homer  ;  but  it  was  owing  doubt- 
less to  the  entireness  and  intensity  of  his  patriotic  devotion 
to  Scotland  and  to  Wallace,  that  his  book  was  for  centuries 
"  the  Bible  of  the  Scottish  people,"  and  that  it  profoundly 
affected  the  boyish  imaginations  of  Robert  Burns,  of  Wal- 
ter Scott,  and  of  Hugh  Miller.  The  fiery  patriotism  of  this 
book  inspired  those  national  songs  of  Burns,  and  those 
magical  tones  occurring  at  intervals  in  all  his  poems,  which 
will  thrill  readers  to  their  inmost  hearts  so  long  as  love  of 
country  endures.  Its  effect  on  Hugh  Miller  was  to  make 
him  a  Scottish  patriot  to  the  finger-tips.  Affection  for  his 


40  THE   BOY. 

country  was  from  that  time  a  ruling  passion  in  his  breast, 
and  his  ideal  of  a  great  man  was  a  great  Scotchman. 

No  wise  critic  will  dispute  that  this  .was  an  important 
and  an  auspicious  advance  in  the  development  of  the  boy. 
It  appears  to  be  a  law  of  the  feelings  that,  to  be  sound, 
strong,  and  healthful,  they  must  proceed  from  the  particu- 
lar to  the  general,  philanthropy  rooting  itself  in  household 
kindness,  cosmopolitan  interest  in  the  human  race  growing 
out  of  undistinguishing  ardor  of  affection  for  one's  coun- 
trymen. He  who,  as  a  boy,  is  indifferent  to  his  own  coun- 
try, will,  as  a  man,  be  indifferent  to  all  countries.  Hugh 
Miller,  we  need  not  doubt,  owed  much  of  that  home-bred 
vigor,  that  genial  strength,  racy  picturesqueness  and  idio- 
matic pith,  which  characterize  his  writings,  to  the  early 
influence  of  Blind  Harry. 

Meanwhile  he  has  been  learning  to  read  in  a  book  whose 
lessons  he  could  not  outgrow,  and  whose  illuminated  let- 
tering, of  gem  and  flower  and  shell,  has  a  charm  for  eye 
and  heart,  which  had  been  absent  from  the  Latin  Eudi- 
ments.  Upon  the  sands  at  ebb-tide,  when  the  slant  sun- 
light strikes  ruddy  from  the  west,  the  boy  may  be  seen 
trotting  by  the  side  of  TJnclQ  Sandy,  hunting  for  lump-fish 
in  the  weeded  pools,  hanging  in  ecstasy  over  the  sea^mosses, 
that  glance  through  the  lucid  wave  with  more  delicate 
splendor  of  rubied  flush  and  scarlet  gleam,  of  golden  tress 
and  silken  fringe,  of  tender  pearl  and  beaming  silver,  than 
graced  the  jewelled  princesses  of  his  fairy-books,  and  drink- 
ing in  with  eager  attention  every  word  uttered  by  his  guide. 
We  can  picture  him  a  kilted  urchin,  probably  barefooted, 
with  bright  auburn  hair,  glowing  blue  eyes,  cheek  touched 
with  the  crimson  of  health,  the  face  marked  by  quiet 
thoughtfulness  and  incipient  power.  H}s  uncles  were 
doubtless  perplexed  with  their  nephew  ;  but,  on  the  whole, 
despite  the  head-shaking  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  Hugh's 


THE     SEA-SHORE.  41 

manifest  lack  of  interest  in  the  Rudiments,  they  could  not 
believe  that  the  boy  who,  since  the  dawn  of  his  faculties, 
had  been  a  good  listener,  a  voracious  reader,  a  quick  and 
intelligent  observer,  was  the  dunce  his  pedagogue  pro- 
nounced him. 


CHAPTEE    III. 

THE    DOOCOT    CAVE. 

E  was  twelve  years  old  when  the  notable  adventure 
of  the  Doocot  Cave  afforded  him  the  subject  of  his 
first  verses.  The  incident,  slight  in  itself,  happens 
to  possess  extraordinary  interest  in  a  biographical 
point  of  view.  "  Man  in  immediate  presence,"  says  Goethe, 
"  still  more  in  remembrance,  fashions  and  models  the  exter- 
nal world  according  to  his  own  peculiarities."  An  event 
which  impresses  the  mind  strongly  in  boyhood  becomes  en- 
twined, as  we  proceed  in  our  life-journey,  with  innumerable 
associations,  and  when  at  successive  stages  in  our  path  we 
attempt  to  recall  its  precise  circumstances,  we  fail  to  place 
them  in  their  original  bareness  before  the  mind's  eye.  Sup- 
pose, then,  that  in  endeavoring  to  know  a  man,  to  realize 
what,  in  the  stages  of  his  growth,  he  was  and  what  he  could 
do,  we  met  with  successive  accounts  from  his  pen  of  one  and 
the  same  incident,  —  would  we  not  feel  that  a  curiously  in- 
structive opportunity  was  afforded  us  of  taking  the  obser- 
vations necessary  for  our  purpose  ?  How  glad  would  the 
biographer  of  a  great  painter  be  to  light  upon  a  series  of  pic- 
tures from  his  hand,  the  subject  the  same  in  all,  but  the  occa- 
sions when  they  were  painted  falling  at  different  dates  in 
his  history,  from  the  morning  of  life  until  its  afternoon ! 
It  is  this  advantage  we  possess  in  connection  with  Hugh 
Miller's  boyish  adventure  in  the  Doocot  Cave.  There  exist 
at  least  four  accounts  of  the  incident  drawn  up  by  himself, — 

42 


FIRST    VERSES.  43 

four  successive  paintings  of  the  same  scene  by  the  boy,  the 
stripling,  the  man  of  twenty-seven,  and  the  man  of  fifty. 

The  first  is  that  referred  to  in  the  "  Schools  and  School- 
masters," as  executed  in  "  enormously  bad  verse,"  a  day  or 
two  after  the  occurrence.  The  copy  before  me  is  the  iden- 
tical one  which  excited  the  admiring  wonder  of  Miss  Bond, 
mistress  of  the  Cromarty  Boarding  School.  Attached  to  it 
is  that  pictorial  representation  of  the  scene  which  Miller 
describes  as  consisting  of  "  horrid  crags  of  burnt  umber,  per- 
forated by  yawning  caverns  of  India  ink,  and  crested  by  a 
dense  forest  of  sap-green."  You  can  see  what  is  intended ; 
the  sea  is  below  the  cavern,  and  the  sward  and  wood  are 
above  ;  but  the  whole  is  not  superior  to  the  ordinarj7"  daub- 
ing of  child-artists.  The  verses  exhibit  internal  evidence  of 
having  been  written  within  a  day  or  two  of  the  event  they 
record.  The  agony  of  distress  and  terror  experienced  by 
the  boy  of  twelve  when  he  and  his  companion  —  a  lad  still 
younger  —  found  themselves,  as  night  came  on,  with  the 
sea  before,  impassable  rocks  on  either  hand,  and  a  dark  cav- 
ern behind,  —  this,  and  their  contrasted  rapture  when  the 
boats  hailed  them  at  midnight,  supersede  all  reflection  on 
the  beauties  of  the  landscape  or  the  wonders  of  the  cave. 
The  grammar  and  spelling  are  about  as  bad  as  possible. 
Here  are  the  first  two  lines  :  — 

"  When  I  to  you  unfolds  my  simple  tale, 
And  paints  the  horrors  of  a  rocky  vail." 

He  forgets  to  say  what  will  happen  when  the  dreadful 
revelation  takes  place,  and  strikes  presently  into  descrip- 
tion of  the  cave.  We  need  not  retain  the  childish  misspell- 
ing :  — 

"  There  stands  a  cavern  on  the  sea-beat  shore, 
Which  stood  for  ages  since  the  days  of  yore, 


44  THE   BOY. 

Whose  open  mouth  stands  forth  awfully  wide, 
•    And  oft  takes  in  the  roaring,  swelling  tide. 
Out  through  the  cavern  water  oozes  fast, 
Which  ends  in  nothing  but  white  stones  at  last. 
Two  boys,  the  author  one,  away  did  stray, 
Being  on  a  beauteous  and  a  sunshine  day." 

The  contemptuous  "  nothing  but  white  stones  "  hardly 
betrays  the  future  geologist,  and  the  naivete  of  "  the  author 
one "  is  charming.  The  three  last  stanzas  relate,  in  very 
flat  prose  fitted  with  rhyme,  that  the  boys  went  to  the  cav- 
ern "for  some  stones,"  found  that  the  water  had  filled  in 
round  them,  tried'  to  get  out.  but  could  not,  were  doubly 
pained  when  ' '  the  night  came  on,  down  poured  the  heavy 
rain,"  and  "  ran  so  very  fast "  to  the  boats  when  they  came 
to  rescue  them.  Nothing  here  but  the  sternest  historical 
realism.  Fancy  has  not  gilded  the  clouds,  nor  enthusiasm 
softened  the  colors ;  the  fact  stands  simply  out  as  an  ex- 
perience of  unromantic  misery. 

For  several  years  this  version  seems  to  have  contented 
Hugh,  the  revision  it  underwent  extending  only  to  verbal 
alterations.  The  lad  of  nineteen,  however,  discards  the 
whole,  and  produces  a  more  polished  and  melodious  ditty. 
The  friend  who  shared  the  adventure  is  dismissed,  and  the 
interest  centres  in  the  "  author,"  or,  as  he  is  now  more  poet- 
ically styled,  "  the  Muses'  youngest  child,"  or,  with  a  touch, 
of  remorseful  pathos,  "  the  Muses'  rude,  untoward  child." 
He  has  learned  to  sketch  in  Scott's  lighter  manner,  and  there 
is  something  of  gracefulness  and  vivacity  in  his  handling : 

"  Well  may  fond  memory  love  to  trace 
The  semblance  of  that  lonely  place, 
Much  may  she  joy  to  picture  fair 
Each  cliff  that  frowns  in  darkness  there ; 
For  when  alone  in  youth  I  strayed 
To  haunted  cave  or  forest  glade, 


SECOND    EDITION.  45 

Each  rock,  each  lonely  dell,  I  knew, 
Where  flow'rets  bloomed  or  berries  grew ; 
Knew  where,  to  shelf  of  whitened  rock, 
At  eve  the  sable  cormorants  flock ; 
Could  point  the  little  arm  to  where 
Deep  the  wild  fox  had  dug  his  lair ; 
Had  marked  with  curious  eye  the  cell 
Where  the  rock-pigeon  loved  to  dwell ; 
Had  watched  the  seal  with  silent  ken, 
And,  venturous,  stormed  the  badger's  den." 

In  the  following  lines  there  seems  to  be  an  echo  from  By- 
ron's tales :  — 

"  Oft  had  our  poet  wished  to  brave 
The  giddy  height  and  foaming  wave, 
That  wildly  dashed  and  darkly  frowned 
The  Doocot's  yawning  caves  around. 
For  many  a  tale  of  wondrous  kind 
With  wild  impatience  fired  his  mind ; 
Tales  of  dark  caves  where  never  ray 
Of  summer's  sun  was  seen  to  play ; 
Tales  of  a  spring  whose  ceaseless  wave 
Nor  gurgling  sound  nor  murmur  gave, 
But  like  that  queen  who,  in  her  pride, 
Latona's  ruthless  twins  defied, 
To  meltless  marble,  as  it  flows 
Through  stiffening  moss  and  lichens,  grows. 
Before  he  deem  these  marvels  true 
The  caves  must  meet  his  curious  view." 

Considerable  progress  here  from  the  "  water  oozing  fast " 
and  "  nothing  but  white  stones,"  of  the  first  edition.  In 
that  performance  the  arrival  of  the  boat  had  been  emphat- 
ically chronicled,  "  the  author"  dwelling  with  manifest  sat- 
isfaction on  the  event.  It  would  not,  however,  have  been 
poetical  enough  for  "  the  Muses'  youngest  child  "  to  be  taken 
off  at  midnight  by  mere  terrestrial  fishermen.  In  the  new 


46  THE   BOY. 

edition,  accordingly,  he  remains  until  "  Aurora"  makes  her 
appearance :  — 

"  And  clear  and  calm  the  billow  rolled, 
With  shade  of  green  and  crest  of  gold." 

The  second  of  these  lines  is  finely  colored. 

A  moral  now  coronat  opus  in  the  tone  of  Scott's  introduc- 
tions to  his  cantos.  It  turns  on  "  art  and  guile,"  "  vice  at- 
tired in  beauty's  smile,"  and  other  matters  which  the  reader 
may  imagine. 

In  the  vigor  of  early  manhood,  Miller  described  the  ad- 
venture of  the  cave  in  his  letter  to  Principal  Baird.  He 
writes  in  prose,  having  estimated  his  talents  with  the  cool- 
est judgment,  and  decided  that,  for  the  present,  he  will 
quit  poetry.  The  picture  has  become  full  in  detail,  and 
glowing  in  tint :  "  The  cave  proved  a  mine  of  wonders. 
"We  found  it  of  great  depth,  and,  when  at  its  farthest  ex- 
tremity, the  sea  and  opposite  land  appeared  to  us  as  they 
would  if  viewed  through  the  tube  of  a  telescope.  We  dis- 
covered that  its  sides  and  roof  were  crusted  over  with  a 
white  stone  resembling  marble,  and  that  it  contained  a 
petrifying  spring.  The  pigeons  which  we  disturbed  were 
whizzing  by  us  through  the  gloom,  reminding  us  of  the 
hags  of  our  story-books,  when  on  their  night  voyage 
through  the  air.  A  shoal  of  porpoises  were  tempesting  the 
water  in  their  unwieldy  gambols,  scarcely  an  hundred  yards 
from  the  cavern's  mouth,  and  a  flock  of  sea-gulls  were 
screaming  around  them,  like  harpies  round  the  viands  of 
the  Trojan.  To  add  to  the  interest  of  the  place,  we  had 
learned  from  tradition  that,  in  the  lang  syne,  this  cave  had 
furnished  Wallace  with  a  hiding-place,  and  that  more  re- 
cently it  had  been  haunted  by  smugglers.  In  the  midst  of 
our  engagements,  however,  the  evening  began  to  darken, 


PROSE   VERSION.  47 

and  we  discovered  that  our  very  fine  cave  was  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  prison.  We  attempted  climbing  round,  but 
in  vain ;  for  the  shelf  from  whence  we  had  leaped  was  un- 
attainable, and  there  was  no  other  path.  '  What  will  my 
mother  think?'  said  the  poor  little  fellow,  whom  I  had 
brought  into  this  predicament,  as  he  burst  into  tears.  c  I 
would  care  nothing  for  myself,  —  but  my  mother.'  The 
appeal  was  powerful,  and,  had  he  not  cried,  I  probably 
would  ;  but  the  sight  of  his  tears  roused  my  pride,  and, 
with  a  feeling  which  Rochefoiicault  would  have  at  once 
recognized  as  springing  from  the  master  principle,  I  at- 
tempted to  comfort  him ;  and  for  the  time  completely  for- 
got my  own  sorrow  in  exulting,  with  all  clue  sympathy, 
over  his.  Night  came  on  both  dark  and  rainy,  and  we  lay 
down  together  in  a  corner  of  the  cave.  A  few  weeks  prior, 
the  corpse  of  a  fisherman,  who  had  been  drowned  early  in 
the  preceding  winter,  had  been  found  on  the  beach  below. 
It  was  much  gashed  by  the  sharp  rocks,  and  the  head  was 
beaten  to  pieces.  I  had  seen  it  at  the  time  it  was  carried 
through  the  streets  of  Cromarty  to  the  church,  where  in 
this  part  of  the  country  the  bodies  of  drowned  persons  are 
commonly  put  until  the  coffin  and  grave  be  prepared  ;  and 
all  this  night  long,  sleeping  or  waking,  the  image  of  this 
corpse  was  continually  before  me.  As  often  as  I  slum- 
bered, a  mangled,  headless  thing  would  come  stalking  into 
the  cave  and  attempt  striking  me,  when  I  would  awaken 
with  a  start,  cling  to  my  companion,  and  hide  my  face  in 
his  breast.  About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were 
relieved  by  two  boats,  which  our  friends,  who  had  spent  the 
early  part  of  the  night  in  searching  for  us  in  the  woods 
above,  had  fitted  out  to  try  along  the  shore  for  our  bodies  ; 
they  having  at  length  concluded  that  we  had  fallen  over 
the  cliffs,  and  were  killed." 

Last  of  all,  written  when  he  was  turned  of  fifty,  we  have 


48  THE    BOY, 

the  narrative  of  the  occurrence  as  it  appears  in  the 
"  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  The  passage,  too  long  to 
quote  in  its  completeness,  is  one  of  the  most  rich  and  elab- 
orate in  the  works  of  Hugh  Miller,  The  "  nothing  but 
white  stones"  of  the  first  description,  and  the  "  meltless 
marble  "  of  the  second,  have  become  the  blended  poetry 
and  science  of  the  following  sentences :  "  There  were 
little  pools  at  the  side  of  the  cave,  where  we  could  see  the 
work  of  congelation  going  on,  as  at  the  commencement  of 
an  October  frost,  when  the  cold  north  wind  ruffles,  and  but 
barely  ruffles,  the  surface  of  some  mountain  lochan  or  slug- 
gish^ mountain  stream,  and  shows  the  newly  formed  needles 
of  ice  projecting  mole-like  from  the  shores  into  the  water. 
So  rapid  was  the  course  of  deposition,  that  there  were  cases 
in  which  the  sides  of  the  hollows  seemed  growing  almost 
in  proportion  as  the  water  rose  in  them  ;  the  springs,  lip- 
ping over,  deposited  their  minute  crystals  on  the  edges ; 
and  the  reservoirs  deepened  and  became  more  capacious  as 
their  mounds  were  built  up  by  this  curious  masonry."  The 
idea  of  the  telescope,  which  occurs  first  in  the  third  descrip- 
tion, is  finely  worked  out  in  the  fourth :  u  The  long,  tele- 
scopic prospect  of  the  sparkling  sea,  as  viewed  from  the 
inner  extremity  of  the  cavern,  while  all  around  was  dark 
as  midnight ;  the  sudden  gleam  of  the  sea-gull,  seen  for 
a  moment  from  the  recess,  as  it  flitted  past  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  the  black,  heaving  bulk  of  the  grampus,  as  it  threw 
up  its  slender  jets  of  spray,  and  then,  turning  downwards, 
displayed  its  glossy  back  and  vast  angular  fin ;  even  the 
pigeons,  as  they  shot  whizzing  by,  one  moment  scarce  vis- 
ible in  the  gloom,  the  next  radiant  in  the  light,  —  all  ac- 
quired a  new  interest,  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  setting  in 
which  we  saw  them.  They  formed  a  series  of  sun-gilt 
vignettes,  framed  in  jet ;  and  it  was  long  ere  we  tired  of 


SECOND    PROSE    VERSION.  49 

seeing  and  admiring  in  them  much  of  the  strange  and  the 
beautiful." 

The  scenery  of  the  heavens  is  hardly  referred  to  in  the 
first  sketch.  The  fact  of  a  rain-storm  having  aggravated 
the  horrors  of  the  situation  is  mentioned,  but  the  boy  thinks 
of  nothing  except  the  additional  pain  it  occasioned.  When 
Hugh  Miller  had  watched  the  sunsets  of  forty  other  sum- 
mers, he  "put  in  the  sky"  of  his  picture  thus:  "The 
sun  had  sunk  behind  the  precipices,  and  all  was  gloom 
along  their  bases,  and  double  gloom  in  their  caves ;  but 
their  rugged  brows  still  caught  the  red  glare  of  evening. 
The  flush  rose  higher  and  higher,  chased  by  the  shadows  ; 
and  then,  after  lingering  for  a  moment  on  their  crests  of 
honeysuckle  and  juniper,  passed  away,  and  the  whole  be- 
came sombre  and  gray.  The  sea-gull  sprang  upward  from 
where  he  had  floated  on  the  ripple,  and  hied  him  slowly 
away  to  his  lodge  in  his  deep-sea  stack  ;  the  dusky  cormo- 
rant flitted  past,  with  heavier  and  more  frequent  stroke,  to 
his  whitened  shelf  high  on  the  precipice  ;•  the  pigeons  came 
whizzing  downwards  from  the  uplands  and  the  opposite 
land,  and  disappeared  amid  the  gloom  of  their  caves ; 
every  creature  that  had  wings  made  use  of  them  in  speed- 
ing homewards  ;  but  neither  my  companion  nor  myself  had 
any,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  getting  home  without 
them.  .  .  .  For  the  last  few  hours  mountainous  piles 
of  clouds  had  been  rising  dark  and  stormy  in  the  sea- 
mouth  ;  they  had  flared  portentously  in  the  setting  sun, 
and  had  worn,  with  the  decline  of  evening,  almost  every 
meteoric  tint  of  anger,  from  fiery  red  to  a  sombre,  thun- 
derous brown,  and  from  sombre  brown  to  doleful  black." 

All  these  things  were  seen  by  Hugh  Miller,  as  he  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  cave,  or  looked  out  from  within 
through  its  rock-hewn  telescope  ;  but  it  was  not  the  Hugh 
Miller  of  twelve  years  who  saw  them ;  it  was  the  Hugh 


50  THE   BOY. 

Miller  of  fifty  who  was  transported  by  imagination  to 
stand  again  in  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  or  gaze  again  from 
its  interior,  and  to  see  "  what  the  eye  brought  with  it  the 
means  of  seeing."  It  was  as  if  Turner  at  fifty  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  paint  the  first  sunset  on  which  he  had 
looked  with  boyish  delight,  and  in  so  doing  had  thrown 
upon  the  canvas  the  science  and  subtlety  of  a  life  spent  in 
the  observation  of  nature.  • 


CHAPTER    IV. 

FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  SUTHERLAND  HIGHLANDS EXPERI- 
MENTS IN  SELF-AMUSEMENT THE  REBELLIOUS  SCHOOL- 
BOY. 

OON  after  the  occurrence  which  has  detained  us  so 
long,  the  boy  proceeded  on  a  visit  to  certain  rela- 
tives in-  the  Highlands  of  Sutherland ;  a  visit 
which  was  repeated  in  two  successive  autumns. 
His  faculties  were  thus  exercised  by  new  scenes  and  new 
acquaintances  ;  he  listened  to  discussions  on  the  poems  of 
Ossiaii,  and  began  secretly  to  think  it  probable  that  the 
famed  Celtic  bard  belonged  to  the  ancient  clan  MacPher- 
son ;  he  added  to  the  picture-gallery  of  his  imagination  a 
few  fresh  subjects,  —  long,  low  valleys  in  tender  blue,  en- 
livened by  green-wooded  knolls  and  delicately  draped  with 
wreaths  of  morning  mist ;  reaches  of  quiet  lake  with  gray 
ruins  nodding  on  slim  promontories ;  waterfalls  glancing 
by  the  silvery  boles  of  birch-trees,  and  sending  up  a  steamy 
spray  to  fall  gemlike  on  their  drooping  foliage ;  and  he 
laid  the  foundation  of  that  thorough  comprehension  of  the 
character  of  the  Highlanders,  and  of  the  condition  of  the 
Highlands,  which  made  him  in  after  life  one  of  the  best 
authorities  on  all  Highland  questions. 

Whether  in  Sutherland  or  at  home,  his  mind  was  con- 
stantly active,  constantly  growing.  His  school-fellows 
wondered  and  derided  as  they  beheld  him  launching  on  the 
horse-pond  a  succession  of  mysterious  vessels  constructed 

51 


52  THE    BOY. 

from  the  descriptions  of  Anson,  Cook,  and  other  voyagers. 
In  the  "Schools  and  Schoolmasters"  we  hear  of  one  of 
these,  a  proa,  similar  to  those  used  by  the  Ladrone  island- 
ers, .but  this  was  no  more  than  a  single  specimen  of  his 
ship-carpentering.  "  I  used,"  he  wrote  to  Baird,  "  to  keep 
in  exercise  the  risible  faculties  of  all  the  mimic  navigators 
of  the  pond,  with  slim,  fish-like  boats  of  bark,  like  those  of 
the  North  American  Indians,  awkward  high-pooped  galleys, 
like  those  I  had  seen  in  an  old  edition  of  Dryden's  "Vir- 
gil," two-keeled  vessels,  like  the  double  canoes  of  Otaheite, 
and  wall-sided  half  vessels,  like  the  proas  of  the  Ladrone 
islands.  Nor  could  I,"  he  proceeds,  "  derive,  like  my  com- 
panions, any  pleasure  from  the  merely  mechanical  opera- 
tion of  plain  sailing.  I  had  a  story  connected  with  every 
voyage,  and  every  day  had  its  history  of  expeditions  of 
discovery,  and  cases  of  mutiny  and  shipwreck."  Naviga- 
tion gave  place  to  chemistry,  but  his  experiments  were 
"  wofully  unfortunate."  Then  he  tried  painting ;  but,  as 
the  art  seems  to  have  required  boiling  of  oil,  and  as  he 
boiled  it  so  effectually  that  the  flame  found  its  way  out  at 
the  chimney-top,  and  a  "  sublime  fire-scene,"  threatening 
to  become  more  sublime  than  agreeable,  was  the  result,  the 
brush  was  thrown  aside.  The  founding  of  leaden  images 
was  next  attempted,  but  one  of  the  busts  being  waggishly 
like  a  neighbor,  and  troubles  arising  in  consequence,  this, 
also,  was  abandoned.  "My  ingenuity  gained  me  such  a 
reprimand  that  I  flung  my  casts  into  the  fire."  He  now 
took  a  turn  at  "mosaic  work,"  and  this  was  followed  by 
attempts  to  fashion  watch-seals.  "  When  I  had  worn  the 
points  of  my  fingers  with  cutting  and  polishing  until  the 
blood  appeared,  I  forsook  the  grindstone."  He  fell  in  with 
a  book  on  natural  magic,  palmistry,  and  astrology,  and  for 
a  time  went  wool-gathering  upon  that  particular  range  of 
the  mountains  of  vanity.  He  became  a  sufficient  adept  in 


AMUSEMENTS*  53 

palmistry  to  make  out,  from  a  perusal  of  the  mystic  char- 
acters inscribed  on  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  that  his  life 
was  to  be  strange  and  eventful,  that  he  was  to  become  a 
revolutionary  leader,  and  that  he  was  to  die,  like  Wallace, 
on  the  scaffold.  Verse- writing,  prose- writing,  and  "  a  third 
sort  of  composition  "which  imitated  the  style  of  Macpher- 
son's  '  Ossian,' "  were  engaged  in,  probably  with  fitfulness, 
]but  with  passionate  enjoyment. 

His  principal  amusement  at  this  period,  however,  was 
one  of  which  he  has  singularly  enough  omitted  mention  in 
the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  He  drew  the  map  of  a 
country  in  the  sand,  and,  having  collected  quantities  of 
variously  colored  shells  from  the  beach,  arranged  them  so 
as  to  represent  its  inhabitants.  Appointing  himself  king 
of  the  miniature  community,  he  designed  its  towns,  roads, 
canals,  harbors,  and  other  public  works.  He  ruled  his 
dominions  by  every  different  form  of  government  with 
which  he  was  acquainted,  and  attacked  or  defended  them 
by  every  stratagem  of  war  with  which  books  or  his  uncles 
had  made  him  familiar. 

In  his  fourteenth  year  all  other  amusements  yielded  to 
that  of  heading  a  band  of  his  school-fellows,  with  whom, 
in  the  harvest  vacation,  he  spent  every  day,  from  dawn  to 
sunset,  in  or  about  a  deep  cavern,  penetrating  one  of  the 
steepest  precipices  which  skirt  the  southern  base  of  the  hill 
of  Cromarty.  One  of  the  brotherhood  brought  a  pot, 
another  a  pitcher ;  the  shore  supplied  shell-fish,  the  wood 
fuel,  the  fields  potatoes,  peas,  and  beans ;  and  so  they 
went  a-gypsying  the  long  summer  day. 

u  The  time  not  employed  in  cooking,"  says  Miller  in  his 
letter  to  Principal  Baird,  "  or  in  procuring  victuals,  we 
spent  in  acting  little  dramatic  pieces,  of  which  I  sketched 
out  the  several  plans,  leaving  the  dialogue  to  be  supplied 
by  the  actors.  Robbers,  buccaneers,  outlaws  of  every 


54  THE   BOY. 

description,  were  the  heroes  of  these  dramas.  They  fre- 
quently, despite  of  my  arrangements  to  the  contrary,  ter- 
minated in  skirmishes  of  a  rather  tragic  cast,  in  which, 
with  our  spears  of  elder  and  swords  of  hazel,  we  exchanged 
pretty  severe  blows.  We  were  sometimes  engaged,  too,  in 
conflicts  with  other  boys,  in  which,  as  became  a  leader,  I 
distinguished  myself  by  a  cool  yet  desperate  courage.  Nor 
was  I  entitled  to  the  rank  I  held  from  only  the  abilities 
which  I  displayed  in  framing  plays  and  in  fighting.  I 
swam,  climbed,  leaped,  and  wrestled  better  than  any  other 
lad  of  my  years  and  inches  in  the  place." 

With  schooling,  in  the  mean  time,  it  fared  as  ill  as  pos- 
sible. Hugh  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  learn,  and  he 
could  neither  be  coaxed  nor  beaten  out  of  his  determina- 
tion. Sooth  to  say,  he  had  become  a  self-willed,  turbulent 
lad,  and  the  haziness  of  conception  on  the  subject  of  meum 
and  tuum,  indicated  by  potato-pilfering  and  orchard-rob- 
bing, was  not  the  darkest  shade  which  we  have  to  bring 
into  harmony  at  this  period,  as  we  best  may,  with  the 
idyllic  brightness  of  his  boyhood.  In  the  letter  to  Prin- 
cipal Baird  and  elsewhere,  he  mentions  a  fact  or  two  which 
he  omits  from  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  but  which 
cannot  be  withheld  consistently  with  biographic  veracity. 

Setting  his  schoolmaster,  his  uncles,  and  his  mother  at 
defiance,  he  played  truant  three  weeks  out  of  four,  and  cast 
off  every  trammel  of  authority.  Distressed  and  alarmed, 
his  relatives  tried  force.  .The  stubborn  will  and  intrepid 
spirit  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  father  were  roused 
to  fiercer  opposition.  He  carried  about  with  him  a  long 
clasp-knife,  with  which  to  repel  any  attack  that  might  be 
made  upon  him  by  his  uncles.  They  next  had  recourse  to 
expostulation.  They  represented  to  him,  with  affectionate 
earnestness,  that  he  was  losing  his  sole  chance  of  escaping 
a  life  of  manual  labor,  and  urged  that  the  possession  of 


BOY-ATHEIST.  55 

faculties  whose  right  use  would  enable  him  to  rise  in  life, 
made  it  the  more  disgraceful  in  him  to  sink  actually  below 
his  father's  station.  The  arguments  were  unanswerable, 
and  Hugh  seems  to  have  made  no  attempt  to  answer  them, 
but  he  held  his  own  course.  His  mother,  profoundly 
afflicted  by  the  seeming  disappointment  of  her  hopes,  gave 
him  up  altogether,  and  bestowed  her  affection  on  his  two 
sisters.  In  the  winter  of  181G,  both  the  little  girls  died. 
Hugh  loved  them,  and  was  deeply  affected  when  the  music 
of  their  voices,  which  had  cheered  the  cottage  so  long, 
passed  suddenly  away  forever.  But  keener  far  was  the 
pang  which  struck  to  his  heart  when  he  overheard  his  mother 
remarking  how  different  would  her  condition  have  been, 
had  it  pleased  Heaven  to  take  her  son  and  leave  one  of 
her  daughters.  "  It  was  bitter  for  me,"  he  says,  "  to  think, 
and  yet  I  could  not  think  otherwise,  that  she  had  cause  of 
sorrow,  both  for  those  whom  she  had  lost,  and  for  him  who 
survived  ;  and  I  would  willingly  have  laid  down  my  life, 
could  the  sacrifice  have  restored  to  her  one  of  my  sisters." 
A  noble  impulse  and  sincere,  but  an  impulse  merely ;  in  a 
few  weeks  he  was  again  at  the  head  of  his  band.  "  A 
particular  way  of  thinking,"  he  remarks,  "  a  peculiar  course 
of  reading,  a  singular  train  of  oral  narration,  had  con- 
curred from  the  period  at  which  I  first  thought,  read,  or 
listened,  in  giving  my  character  the  impress  it  then  bore, 
and  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  detached  accident  or  effort 
to  effect  a  change."  He  had,  at  this  time,  cast  all  religion 
to  the  winds.  We  have  it  explicitly  in  his  own  words  that 
he  became  an  atheist.  "  A  boy-atheist,"  he  writes  to  Mr 
John  Swanson,  in  1828,  "is  surely  an  uncommon  character. 
I  was  one  in  reality ;  for,  possessed  of  a  strong  memory, 
which  my  uncles,  and  an  early  taste  for  reading,  had  stored 
with  religious  sentiments  and  stories  of  religious  men,  I 
was  compelled,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  either  to  do  that 


56  THE   BOY. 

which  was  right ;  or  by  denying  the  truth  -  of  the  Bible  to 
set  every  action,  good  and  bad,  on  the  same  level."  His 
atheism,  however,  was  a  mere  affectation,  —  a  drossy  scum 
on  the  surface  of  his  nature,  with  no  real  basis  either  in 
head  or  in  heart.  It  was  one  form  of  his  rebelliousness  at 
the  time.  He  was  obstinately  wilful  and  irreligious,  and 
he  thought  it  bold  and  fine  and  also  logically  consistent  to 
call  himself  an  atheist.  ~ 

Three  schoolmasters  in  succession  had  an  opportunity  of" 
exercising  their  talents  upon  Hugh,  and  in  each  case  the 
failure  was  signal.  His  schooling  ended  when  he  was  fif- 
teen in  a  pitched  battle  with  the  dominie.  His  gains  from 
ten  years  of  nominal  education  were  small.  Penmanship, 
clear  and  strong,  a  smattering  of  arithmetic,  spelling  of 
which  a  boy  of  ten  might  be  ashamed,  syntax  which  joined 
substantives  in  the  singular  to  verbs  in  the  plural  and  vice 
versa,  were  his  scholastic  acquirements.  His  miscellaneous 
reading,  however,  had  been  extensive ;  he  had  stored  up  a 
vast  amount  of  information  in  a  capacious  and  retentive 
memory ;  he  composed  freely  in  prose  and  verse,  though 
there  is  hardly  any  sign  of  vitality  in  his  writings  of  this 
period  except  the  delight  they  evince  in  the  work  of  com- 
position. Before  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  his  conflict 
with  the  schoolmaster  took  place,  he  had  avenged  himself 
in  a  copy  of  satirical  verses,  which,  to  say  the  least,  show  a 
great  advance,  in  flexibility  and  in  command  of  language, 
on  those  in  which  he  first  recorded  the  adventure  in  the 
Doocot  cave.  As  given  in  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters," 
they  are  much  improved,  the  epithets  freshened  and  bur- 
nished, and  the  best  line  in  the  whole, 

"  Nature's  born  fop,  a  saint  by  art," 
added.     I  find  the    lines  in  the   "Village   Observer,"   a 


CONTRADICTIONS    OF    CHARACTER.  57 

manuscript  magazine  in  Miller's  boyish  handwriting, 
dated  Feb.,  1820. 

Such  was  Hugh  Miller  at  the  time  he  left  school.  A 
rugged,  proud,  and  stiff-necked  lad,  impossible  to  drive  and 
difficult  to  lead,  his  character  already  marked  with  strong 
lines,  and  developing  from  within  or  through  self-chosen 
influences.  "  I  saw,"  said  Baxter  of  Cromwell,  "  that  what 
he  learned  must  be  from  himself ;"  and  the  observation 
'might  already  have  been  made  of  Hugh  Miller.  To  his 
friends  he  was  a  perplexity  and  offence ;  to  his  uncles,  in 
particular,  who  knew  him  too  well  and  were  too  sagacious 
to  accept  the  off-hand  theory  of  his  schoolmasters  that  he 
was  merely  a  stupid  and  bad  boy,  he  must  have  seemed  a 
mass  of  contradictions.  Intellectual  in  his  wildest  play, 
fond  of  books,  and  capable  of  discerning  excellence  from  its 
counterfeits  in  thought  and  style,  passionately  addicted  to 
the  observation  of  nature,  and  forgetting  no  fact  he  once 
ascertained,  how  could  he  be  dull  in  the  ordinary  sense? 
If,  again,  capacity  to  influence  one's  fellows  was  a  test  of 
power,  could  it  be  said  that  he,  who  was  undisputed  sover- 
eign of  the  boys  of  the  place,  was  the  stupidest  of  them 
all?  A  dunce  who  from  childhood  had  entertained  his 
companions  with  tales  of  his  own  invention,  who  fitted  his 
play-fellows  with  dramatic  parts  by  way  of  pastime,  who 
was  never  weary  when  his  pen  was  in  his  hand,  who  pos- 
sessed more  literary  information  than  any  one  twice  his 
age  in  Cromarty,  was  a  phenomenon  new  to  the  experience 
of  Uncle  James  and  Uncle  Sandy.  It  was  a  puzzle  for 
them,  and  it  is  something  of  a  puzzle  for  us. 

Not  a  few  —  among  them  men  of  the  highest  eminence 
as  thinkers  and  writers  —  will  decide  with  impatient  em- 
phasis that  Hugh's  rebellion  against  the  tyranny  of  gram- 
mar was  the  genial  assertion  of  his  native  force,  the  burst- 
ing of  the  flower-pot  by  the  oak  sapling,  the  most  propi- 


58  THE    BOY. 

tious  thing  which  could  have  befallen  him.  There  is  much 
to  be  said  on  this  side  of  the  question.  The  boy  who  was 
dux  of  the  school  in  Cromart}^  when  Hugh  Miller  was 
dunce,  —  the  model  boy,  who  was  the  delight  of  the  school- 
master, and  who  carried  off  the  highest  prizes  when  he 
went  to  college,  —  the  boy  whom  the  story-books  designate 
for  a  Lord  Mayor's  coach  and  a  handsome  fortune,  —  be- 
came a  respectable  and  useful  minister  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland,  and  would  probably  never  have  been  heard  of 
beyond  the  circle  of  his  parishioners,  but  for  the  circum- 
stance of  his  having  been  mentioned  in  the  works  of  his 
friend,  the  dunce.  The  name  of  the  dux  has  been  touched 
by  the  pen  of  the  dunce,  and  is  likely  to  live  as  long  as  the 
English  language.  By  taking  the  bit  into  his  teeth,  leap- 
ing the  fences,  and  scouring  the  plain  at  his  own  wild  will, 
Hugh  Miller  obtained  that  freedom  for  his  faculties  which 
is  necessary  to  all  vigorous  growth,  to  all  beauty  and  ca- 
pricious grace  of  movement.  Had  he  received  the  techni- 
cal training  of  a  college  professor,  would  college  professors 
have  said  that  they  would  give  their  hand  from  their  wrist  for 
the  curio  safelidtas  of  his  style?  Take  young  creatures,  colts, 
or  lambs,  mew  them  up,  feed  and  fodder  them  on  the  most 
approved  scientific  principles ;  you  will  have  them  sleek 
and  fat,  but  will  there  be  buoyancy  or  elastic  strength  in 
their  limbs  ;  will  there  be  the  light  of  health  and  joy  in  their 
eyes ;  will  not  the  "  poor  things,"  like  Tennyson's  hot- 
house flowers,  "  look  unhappy  "  ?  The  law  of  freedom  ap- 
plies to  all  life,  human  as  well  as  animal,  and  the  finer  and 
fresher  the  mental  qualities,  the  greater  is  the  risk  that 
constraint  will  benumb  or  pervert  them.  The  grand  thing 
to  be  secured  is  mental  force,  and  it  is  possible  that  labo- 
rious effort  to  attain  skill  in  the  expression  of  force  may 
draw  fatally  on  the  original  force  itself.  The  faculties, 
like  over-drilled  soldiers,  may  have  no  strength  left  to  play 


WAS   IT   WELL?  59 

their  part  in  life's  battle.     It  is  a   Shakespearian  opinion 
that 

"  Universal  plodding  prisons  up 

The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries ; 

As  motion  and  long-during  action  tires 

The  sinewy  vigor  of  the  traveller." 

The  worst  possible  result  of  school  discipline  is  to  take 
the  edge  from  that  exultant  ardor  with  which  a  strong 
youth  thinks  of  work,  for  rnind  or  for  body,  as  the  supreme 
of  pleasures.  Hugh  Miller's  freedom  was  not  unredeemed 
trifling ;  it  was  his  native  force  developing  in  its  own  way 
and  seeking  its  own  nourishment.  If  he  turned  from  the 
Latin  Rudiments,  he  found  a  literature  in  which  he  never 
tired  to  expatiate,  —  a  literature  whose  teaching  he  accepted 
with  enthusiasm ;  a  literature  which  acquainted  him  with 
foreign  lands,  and  caused  him  to  thrill  at  the  deeds  of 
brave  men  ;  a  literature  whose  inmost  spirit  he  vitally  as- 
similated and  made  his  own.  If  attention  to  his  grammati- 
cal task  in  the  dingy  school-room  pained  him,  his  powers 
were  concentrated  in  highest  action  when  he  accompanied 
Uncle  Sandy  in  his  researches  on  the  shore  at  ebb-tide,  or 
when,  in  solitary  rambles,  he  looked  carefully,  constantly, 
lovingly,  into  the  face  of  nature.  Even  in  those  doings 
with  his  brethren  of  the  cave  which  seem  to  have  occa- 
sioned his  relatives  most  alarm,  he  was  acquiring  habits  of 
self-possession,  courage,  fidelity,  reticence,  which  are  not 
always  imparted  by  artificial  training. 

And  let  us  not  forget  that  stubbornness  of  purpose,  in- 
flexibility of  will,  the  unpardonable  sin  in  the  eyes  of  most 
pedagogues,  is  after  all  the  indispensable  basis  of  charac- 
ter for  any  man  who  will  do  much.  Acquire  it  as  he  may, 
the  ability  to  go  forward  in  the  path  he  has  chosen,  to  face 
the  pelting  shower  and  the  scorching  sun,  to  do  wholly, 
heartily,  inflexibly,  what  he  deliberately  wills  to  do,  is  of 


60  THE    BOY. 

sovereign  importance  for  a  man.  Quicquid  vult  valde  vult,  — 
this  is  the  diploma  of  masterhood  in  nature's  university ; 
"  unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not  excel,"  —  this  is  the"  hope- 
less doom.  "  I  sowed  flower-seed,"  wrote  John  Sterling 
respecting  his  management  of  his  garden  in  boyhood,  "  and 
then  turned  up  the  ground  again  and  planted  potatoes,  and 
then  rooted  out  the  potatoes  to  insert  acorns,  and  apple- 
pips,  and  at  last,  as  may  be  supposed,  reaped  neither  roses, 
nor  potatoes,  nor  oak-trees,  nor  apples."  The  words  are  an 
epitome  of  Sterling's  biography.  Hugh  Miller,  even  in  boy- 
hood, had  a  purpose,  and  held  to  it,  firmly  resolved  that  he 
would  not  have  his  limbs  straightened  on  the  Procrustean 
bed  prepared  for  him,  conscious  that  he  was  neither  dunce 
nor  reprobate,  but  growing  in  his  own  way. 

It  must  be  carefully  noted  that  the  character  always  re- 
mained sound  in  the  vital  parts.  Of  meanness,  untruthful- 
ness,  cruelty,  avarice,  he  showed  no  trace.  Had  his  sensual 
passions  been  vehement  as  those  of  Burns  or  Mirabeau, 
the  probability  is  that  he  would  have  fallen  into  debauch- 
ery ;  but  his  wildest  passion  was  a  passion  for  freedom ; 
his  dissipation  was  to  wander  in  the  wood  or  by  the  wave. 
Neither  morally  nor  intellectually  was  he,  at  any  time, 
dissolute. 

And  yet  it  is  impossible  to  hide  from  ourselves  that  there 
is  another  side  to  all  this.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
insubordination,  turbulence,  habitual  neglect  of  tasks  with 
which  a  sentiment  of  duty  is  more  or  less  associated,  can 
be  other  than  disadvantageous  to  the  mind.  To  check  the 
lawlessness  natural  to  man  ;  to  break  self-will  to  the  yoke  ; 
to  change  the  faculties  from  a  confused  barbarian  herd  or 
horde  (Jieer  of  the  old  German  tribes)  into  a  disciplined  or 
exercised  company  (exercitus  of  the  Romans)  must  ever  be 
an  essential  part  of  the  training  of  youth.  Educated 


THE    OTHER   SIDE.  61 

human  nature  is  more  natural  than  uneducated.     Shakes- 
peare says,  again :  — 

"  Nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 
But  nature  makes  that  mean ;  so,  o'er  that  art, 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes." 

Does  not  this  throw  us  back  on  the  reflection  that  educa- 
tion of  the  highest  kind,  based  on  nature,  guided  by  nature, 
yet  raising  nature  to  heights  otherwise  unattainable,  is  not 
to  be  easily  attained?  In  every  case  where  an  original 
mind  is  concerned,  education  is  too  subtle  a  process,  re- 
quiring too  intimate  and  individual  a  communion  of  soul 
with  soul,  to  be  managed  by  the  rough,  common  methods. 
A  boy  of  genius  would  require  a  teacher  of  genius,  one 
whose  perceptions  were  so  keen,  whose  sympathies  were  so 
fine  and  true,  that  he  could  understand  the  exceptional 
mind,  obey  its  monitions  as  he  led  it  on,  apply  to  it  a  con- 
straint which  would  be  felt  as  gentleness,  and  a  gentleness 
which  would  tell  as  constraint.  Had  Hugh  Miller  found  such 
a  teacher,  the  advantage  to  himself  and  the  world  might 
doubtless  have  been  great.  He  had  capacities  in  him  for 
consummate  scholarship,  an  exact  and  tenacious  memory, 
great  attention,  great  application,  true  taste,  and  clear  judg- 
ment. Learning  could  never  with  him  have  been  pedantry  ; 
and  it  is  indisputable  that  the  man  who  can  converse  with 
the  ancients  in  their  own  tongues  commands  a  wider  intel- 
lectual horizon  than  the  man  who  knows  only  his  native 
language.  One  cannot  help  wishing  that  Hugh  Miller  had 
seen  Homer  himself  lead  out  Achilles  to  poise  a  javelin,  or 
had  perceived  how  different  a  person  is  the  brawny,  broad- 
shouldered,  highly  unrhetorical  Ulysses  of  the  "  Odysse}^" 
from  the  Ulysses  whom  Pope  taught  to  look  and  speak  "  in 
a  manner  worthy  of  the  times  of  civilization."  Had  Hugh 


62  THE    BOY. 

Miller's  father  survived,  his  shrewd  sense  and  peremptory 
authority  might  have  given  a  new  color  to  the  schooling  of 
the  boy  ;  and,  without  sacrificing  his  freedom,  Hugh  might 
have  taken  enough  along  with  him  to  go  to  college.  Once 
at  a  university,  the  ambition  of  scholarship  would  have 
laid  hold  on  him,  and  with  genius  unimpaired  and  materials 
extended,  he  might,  in  the  first  bloom  of  his  manhood,  have 
taken  his  place  among  the  foremost  intellectual  workers  of 
his  time. 

There  is  another  consideration  which  lends  a  melancholy 
emphasis  to  these  regrets.  Hugh  Miller  came  of  a  long- 
lived,  strong-boned  race,  and  we  have  learned  from  himself 
that  he  was  the  most  athletic  boy  of  his  years  in  Cromarty. 
Had  he  proceeded  to  a  University,  he  would  have  avoided 
those  fifteen  years  in  the  quarry  and  the  hewing-shed,  dur- 
ing which  his  robust  constitution  was  shaken,  and  the  seeds 
of  ineradicable  disease  were  sown  in  his  frame.  In  that 
case,  the  tear  and  wear  of  the  severest  of  the  intellectual 
professions,  journalism,  though  combined  with  unremitting 
attention  to  science,  might  have  failed  to  prevent  his  attain- 
ing a  green  old  age.  In  his  letter  to  Baird,  he  refers  to  the 
obscurity  and  hardship  of  his  life  as  a  mason,  as  "  punish- 
ment for  his  early  carelessness."  But  why  follow  these 
speculations  farther,  or  launch  into  the  vainest  and  vaguest 
of  all  philosophies,  the  philosophy  of  what  might  have 
been?  By  natural  endowment  and  the  action  of  circum- 
stances, —  in  one  word,  by  the  will  of  God,  —  Miller  was 
fitted  for  the  work  appointed  him,  and  this  is  all  we  require 
to  know  or  can  know.  - 


BOOK   II. 


THE   APPRENTICE. 


"  Consider  how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  labor,  the  whole  soul  of  a  man 
is  composed  into  a  kind  of  real  harmony  the  instant  he  sets  himself  to  work." 

"  Befreit  der  Mensch  sich  der  sich  Uberwindet." 


CHAPTER    I. 

BOYISH    MAGAZINES A   LAD    OF    HIS    OWN   WILL BECOMES 

APPRENTICE  —  HARDSHIPS  —  ALLEVIATIONS. 

OY-LIFE,  with  its  freshness  of  faculty,  its  exuber- 
ance  of  delights,  its  opulence  of  wayward  force, 
lies  behind  Hugh  Miller.  In  the  autumn  of  1819 
his  mother,  after  a  widowhood  of  fourteen  years, 
accepts  n  second  husband,  and  he  removes  with  her  to  the 
house  of  his  step-father.  "  I  had  no  particular  objections 
to  the  match,"  he  writes  to  a  friend  a  few  years  later,  "  but 
you  may  be  certain  that  it  gave  me  much  disgust  at  the 
time."  It  compels  him  to  realize  the  fact  that  the  world 
has  changed  for  him,  and  that  duty  now  demands  that  play 
shall  cease  and  work  begin.  Half  a  year,  however,  glides 
away  pleasantly  enough,  —  his  own  expression  is  "  very 
agreeably,"  —  in  the  house  of  his  step-father.  He  still  con- 
tinues those  sportings  with  literature  which  have  from  in- 
fancy been  among  his  choicest  enjoyments.  I  have  before 
me  Nos.  L,  II. ,  and  III.  of  a  tiny  Magazine,  written  in 
Miller's  hand,  and  entitled,  "  The  Village  Observer,  or 
Monthly  MSS."  They  are  dated  January,  February, 
March,  1820.  Hugh  is  the  editor  and  principal  contributor. 
It  is  in  February  of  this  year  that  he  enters  on  his  appren- 
ticeship, and  the  March  number  closes  the  series.  The  pen 
gives  place  to  the  hammer  —  for  a  time. 

These    "  Village    Observers "  are    absolutely    authentic 
documents  of  Miller's  history  at  this  time,  and  enable  us  to 

65 


66  THE   APPRENTICE. 

realize  the  circumstances  of  his  life  before  any  tint  of 
fancy,  or  association  from  the  pursuits  of  a  subsequent 
period,  had  softened  their  harsher  features.  In  the  three 
numbers  there  is  not  the  remotest  allusion  to  his  appren- 
ticeship. This  may  be  imputed  to  the  disagreeableness  of 
the  subject ;  but  it  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  place  is 
not  found  for  a  brief  description  of  those  rare  and  beautiful 
birds  discovered  by  him  in  the  quarry  on  the  evening  of  his 
first  day  of  labor,  and  delineated  with  enthusiastic  minute- 
ness in  tne  "  Old  Red  Sandstone."  The  one  was  a  gold- 
finch, —  very  uncommon  in  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  — 
with  "  hood  of  vermilion  and  wings  inlaid  with  gold  ; "  the 
other  a  bird  of  the  woodpecker  tribe,  u  variegated  with 
light  blue  and  a  grayish-yellow."  Neither  does  Hugh,  in 
capacity  of  village  observer,  give  us,  in  his  March  number 
for  1820,  any  hint  of  that  "exquisite  pleasure"  which,  as 
we  are  told  in  the  "  Old  Red  Sandstone,"  he  derived  from 
contemplating  the  adjacent  landscape  when  resting,  on  the 
second  day,  from  his  toil  at  the  hour  of  noon.  "  All  the 
workmen,"  he  says  in  that  book, "  rested  at  mid-day,  and  I 
went  to  enjoy  my  half-hour  alone  on  a  mossy  knoll  in  the 
neighboring  wood,  which  commands  through  the  trees  a 
wide  prospect  of  the  bay  and  the  opposite  shore.  There 
was  not  a  wrinkle  on  the  water,  nor  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  and 
the  branches  were  as  moveless  in  the  calm  as  if  they  had 
been  traced  on  canvas.  From  a  wooded  promontory,  that 
stretched  half-way  across  the  frith,  there  ascended  a  thin 
column  of  smoke.  It  rose  straight  as  the  line  of  a  plummet 
for  more  than  a  thousand  yards,  and  then,  on  reaching  a 
thinner  stratum  of  air,  spread  out  equally  on  every  side, 
like  the  foliage  of  a  stately  tree.  Ben  Wyvis  rose  to  the 
west,  white  with  the  yet  unwasted  snows  of  winter,  and  as 
sharply  defined  in  the  clear  atmosphere  as  if  all  its  sunny 
slopes  and  blue  retiring  hollows  had  been  chiselled  in 


BEGINNINGS   OF   TOIL.  67 

marble.  They  reminded  me  of  the  pretty  French  story,  in 
which  an  old  artist  is  described  as  tasking  the  ingenuity  of 
his  future  son-in-law,  by  giving  him,  as  a  subject  for  his 
pencil,  a  flower-piece  composed  of  only  white  flowers,  of 
which  the  one  half  were  to  bear  their  proper  color,  the  other 
half  a  deep  purple  hue,  and  yet  all  be  perfectly  natural ; 
and  how  the  young  man  resolved  the  riddle  and  gained  his 
mistress  by  introducing  a  transparent  purple  vase  into  the 
picture,  and  making  the  light  pass  through  it  on  the  flowers 
that  were  drooping  over  the  edge.  I  returned  to  the  quarry, 
convinced  that  a  very  exquisite  pleasure  may  be  a  very 
cheap  one,  and  that  the  busiest  employments  may  afford 
leisure  enough  to  enjoy  it."  This  is  beautiful  writing  and 
excellent  philosophy ;  but  there  is  not  a  word  in  any  degree 
resembling  it,  whether  descriptive  or  philosophical,  in  the 
"  Monthly  MSS.,"  edited  by  Hugh  Miller  at  the  time.  Nor 
is  mention  made  of  the  ripple-marked  sandstone,  on  behold- 
ing which,  on  the  same  day,  he  "  felt  as  completely  at  fault 
as  Robinson  Crusoe  did  on  his  discovering  the  print  of  the 
man's  foot  on  the  sand." 

What  is,  perhaps,  still  more  surprising,  there  is  a  similar 
absence  of  reference  to  ornithological,  geological,  or  aesthetic 
alleviations  of  his  early  toil  in  the  account  of  this  period, 
written  by  him  ten  years  subsequently  for  Principal  Baird. 
"  My  first  six  months  of  labor,"  he  writes  to  Baird  in  1829, 
"  presented  only  a  series  of  disasters.  I  was  at  the  time 
of  a  slender  make  and  weak  constitution  ;  and  I  soon  found 
I  was  ill-fitted  for  such  employments  as  the  trundling  of 
loaded  wheelbarrows  over  a  plank,  or  the  raising  of  huge 
blocks  of  stone  out  of  a  quarry.  My  hands  were  soon 
fretted  into  large  blisters,  my  breast  became  the  seat  of  a 
dull,  oppressive  pain,  and  I  was  much  distressed,  after  exer- 
tion more  than  usually  violent,  by  an  irregular  motion  of  my 
heart.  My  spirits  were  almost  always  miserably  low ;  and 


68  THE    APPRENTICE. 

I  was  so  wrapped  up  in  a  wretched,  apathetic  absence  of 
mind,  that  I  have  wrought  for  whole  hours  together  with 
scarcely  a  thought  of  what  I  was  doing  myself,  and  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  others  were  doing  around  me." 

Both  these  narratives  may  be  strictly  consistent  with  fact. 
In  that  case  they  afford  a  striking  illustration  of  Miller's 
own  remark,  that  two  varying  descriptions  may  be  given  by 
the  same  person  of  the  same  events,  and  yet  both  be  vera- 
cious, lie  said  nothing,  in  the  earlier  documents,  of  the 
rare  birds,  the  beautiful  landscape,  the  rippled-marked  stone, 
because  it  was  not  until  afterwards  that  he  regarded  them 
as  of  importance.  He  mentally  associated  with  his  first 
years  of  labor  feelings  which  belonged  to  a  later  time.  He 
was  an  observer  from  infancy,  and  his  observations  gave 
him  joy ;  his  memory  became  stored  with  facts  ;  but  not 
until  he  studied  geology  did  he  apprehend  that  these  facts 
had  any  scientific  value.  When  geology  took  possession  of 
Miller,  the  possession  was  complete.  He  thought,  talked, 
wrote  of  geology ;  his  leading  articles,  his  discussions  of 
political  and  religious  questions,  were  full  of  it.  From  the 
boyish  magazines  he  edited,  it  is  absent ;  from  the  poems 
which  he  composed  in  boyhood  and  youth,  it  is  absent ;  in 
the  letters  which  he  wrote  to  his  favorite  associates,  of 
which  we  have  an  uninterrupted  series,  beginning  a  year  or 
two  later  than  the  time  at  which  we  have  arrived,  we  look 
for  it  in  vain  ;  and  in  the  narrative  composed  at  the  request 
of  Baird,  there  is  not  one  throb  of  scientific  enthusiasm. 
It  was,  I  believe,  at  a  time  much  later  than  that  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship that  Hugh  Miller,  though  his  eye  had  always 
beamed  with  delight  when  it  rested  on  an  object  of  beauty, 
learned  .to  take  a  geological  interest  in  the  ammonite, 
"  graceful  in  its  curves  as  those  of  the  Ionic  volute,  and 
greatly  more  delicate  in  its  sculpturing,"  or  to  read,  hour 


THE    "  VILLAGE    OBSERVER/''  69 

after  hour,  with  scientific  curiosity,  in  the  "  marvellous 
library  of  the  Scotch  Lias." 

Boys  and  girls  are  moralists  and  politicians  before  they 
care  about  science.  Charlotte  Bronte  and  her  brother  and 
sisters  also  played  at  Magazines,  and  wrote  solemn  essays 
lauding  the  Duke  and  execrating  the  Whigs.  Hugh  Miller 
and  his  boy  friends  in  1820  were  ardent  politicians,  censur- 
ing the  conduct  of  government,  bewailing  the  horrors  of 
Peterloo,  sternly  criticising  the  motives  and  proceedings  of 
the  Reformers.  One  of  the  most  important  articles  in  their 
Magazine  is  a  "  Retrospective  Essay,"  in  which  the  events 
of  the  time  are  reviewed  in  an  ethico-historical  spirit. 
There  is  no  name  attached  to  the  piece,  but  I  take  it  to  be 
Miller's,  and  it  is  at  all  events  a  specimen  at  first  hand  of 
the  kind  of  speculation  and  of  talk  which  went  on  in  the 
circle  of  his  acquaintance.  The  retrospective  essayist 
thinks  that  the  cruelties  committed  at  Manchester  in  the 
Peterloo  affair  "  will  be  held  in  as  much  detestation  by 
future  ages  as  the  firing  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Toulon,  or 
the  massacre  of  Glencoe."  A  clever  simile,  however, 
catches  his  eye,  and  he  follows  the  bright  game  even  at  the 
risk  of  inconsistency.  "  Smollett,"  he  says,  "  has  some- 
where observed  that  an  English  mob,  like  a  dancing  bear, 
may  be  irritated  to  a  very  dangerous  degree  of  rage,  yet 
pacified  by  firing  a  pistol  over  his  nose.  Such  was  it  with 
our  British  Radicals ;  those  whose  vivid  harangues  were 
inspired  with  all  the  spirit  of  heroism,  and  whom  we  would 
have  supposed  lions  in  the  field,  slunk  frightened  at  the 
hostile  preparations  against  them,  and  were  heard  of  no 
more."  Severities  comparable  both  to  the  massacre  of 
Glencoe  and  to  the  firing  of  a  pistol  over  a  bear's  nose  are 
not  easily  imagined,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  debar  boy  lit- 
terateurs from  saying  all  the  fine  things  which  turn  tip,  in 
discussing  a  subject,  merely  because  they  occur  on  opposite 


70  THE    APPRENTICE. 

sides  of  the  question.  Very  young  and  very  old  politicians 
are  generally  Conservative,  and  the  former  invariably  ex- 
press the  highest  moral  and  religious  sentiments.  Our 
retrospective  essayist  has  little  or  no  sympathy  with  the 
patriots.  "  Reform ,"  he  writes,  "  was  but  the  name  which 
a  few  designing  men  had  affixed  to  a  daring  rebellion  ;  and 
whose  aims  were  that,  after  having  pulled  down  with  the 
teeth  of  a  deluded  multitude  those  men  whose  tyranny  was 
most  obnoxious,  to  set  themselves  up  as  rulers,  and  in  their 
turn  be  tyrants.  Happily  their  conduct  and  principles  were 
of  such  a  nature  as  to  exclude  from  their  meetings  men  of 
piety  or  true  independence.  The  religious  opinions  of  Cob- 
bett  held  back  all  true  Christians  from  his  standard,  and 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  Carlyle  was  defended  disgusted 
all  men  of  sense  or  feeling.  At  their  meetings  it  was  im- 
possible to  be  an  oppositionist ;  and  though  they  termed 
themselves  men  of  liberty  and  forbearance,  the  man  who 
dared  openly  to  oppose  their  schemes  ran  the  risk  of  having 
his  brains  beat  out.  Indeed,  the  liberty  they  would  have 
secured  for  themselves  was  of  no  universal  kind  ;  it  was  a 
liberty  which  only  bad  men  would  have  profited  by,  and 
from  which  the  virtuous  would  have  turned  with  disgust ; 
those  laws  which  bind  the  victorious  would  no  longer  have 
existed,  and  instead  of  a  few  there  would  have  been  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  tyrants." 

The  last  number  of  the  "Village  Observer"  contains  a 
few  verses  on  criticism,  headed  "  extempore,"  which  seem 
to  be  by  Miller.  The  two  opening  lines  are  not  without 
spirit :  — 

"  Critics,  like  lions,  make  not  carrion  game; 
The  work  has  merit,  or  they'll  ne'er  condemn." 

Perhaps  the  most  significant  trait  which  the  number  pre- 
sents of  Hugh  is  this  from  a  "Journal  of  the  Week:" 


ENGAGES    WITH   DAVID    WRIGHT.  71 

"  Wrote  a  moral  essay  upon  the  advantages  of  industry,  but 
tore  it  in  pieces  on  considering  that  its  author  was  one  of 
the  most  indolent  personages  on  earth,  —  did  nothing,  but 
still  determined  on  reform." 

Farewell,  then,  to  the  busy  idleness  of  verse-making  and 
magazine-editing.  In  the  last  days  of  February,  Miller 
still  has  leisure  to  put  together  the  number  for  March,  but 
no  other  number  follows.  He  binds  himself  verbally,  but 
by  no  legal  instrument,  apprentice  for  three  years  to  "  old 
David  Wright,"  stone-mason,  brother-in-law  of  his  mother. 
Old  David  was  something  of  a  character.  The  man  who, 
standing  on  the  thwarts  of  his  boat,  which  had  just  sunk, 
the  sea-water  being  at  the  moment  up  to  his  throat,  could 
so  accurately  appreciate  the  points  of  his  situation,  and 
retain  so  clear  a  perception  of  the  thing  to  be  done,  as  to 
say,  on  seeing  his  snuff-box  floating  off,  "  Od,  Andro 
man,  just  rax  out  your  han'  and  tak'  in  my  snuff-box," 
must  have  had  an  enviable  firmness  of  nerve  and  quietness 
of  self-possession. 

Miller's  uncles,  who  had  taken  the  right  measure  of  his 
capacity,  and  who  had  loved  and  watched  over  him  as  a 
son,  have  done  their  utmost  to  oppose  this  decision.  Their 
sure  instinct  tells  them  that  the  place  of  this  recruit  is  not 
in  the  ranks  ;  they  have  earnestly  wished  to  see  him  en- 
rolled among  the  brain-workers  of  the  community ;  and, 
like  all  Scottish  peasants  of  the  old  historic  type,  they 
regard  the  ministers  of  the  Church  of  Christ  as  taking  pre- 
cedence of  all  others  in  the  intellectual  aristocracy.  They 
have  told  him  that  if  he  will  only  return  to  his  books,  and 
prepare  for  college,  their  home  and  their  savings  will  be  at 
his  command.  They  have  tried  to  appeal  to  his  pride  and 
desire  for  advancement.  Uncle  James  has  gone  the  length 
of  hinting  with  some  bitterness  that  if  he  has  found  books 
too  hard  for  him,  he  may  find  labor  harder  still,  and  may 


72  THE   APPRENTICE. 

turn  from  the  latter  with  the  same  inconstancy  with  which 
he  turned  from  the  former.  But  Hugh,  as  James  Wright 
knoWs  and  has  said,  is  "  a  lad  of  his  own  will,"  and  his 
mind  is  made  up.  As  for  his  declinature  of  the  clerical 
profession,  he  satisfies  both  himself  and  Uncle  James  on 
that  head,  by  the  consideration  that  he  has  no  call  to  the 
sacred  office.  The  feeling  of  independence,  strong  in 
Hugh  Miller  as  in  Robert  Burns,  rebels  against  the  idea 
of  his  going  to  college,  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  rela- 
tives. Strangely  enough,  too,  that  passion  for  literature, 
whether  in  the  form  of  reading  or  of  writing,  which  had 
marked  him  from  his  childhood  as  the  predestined  author, 
drove  him  to  the  quarry.  The  conception  of  a  literary  ca- 
reer founded  upon  a  complete  University  education,  and 
commencing  with  the  instruments  and  furtherances  which 
ages  have  accumulated,  had  not  dawned  upon  his  mind. 
Literature  had  been  to  him  a  coy  maiden,  radiant,  fasci- 
nating, but  free  and  light-winged  as  a  forest  bird,  and 
he  shrank  from  formal  irreversible  espousals.  He  has 
observed  that  "  Cousin  George,"  a  mason,  though  hard- 
worked  during  several  months  in  the  year,  has  the  months 
of  winter  to  himself.  This  decides  him  in  favor  of  the 
trade  of  mason.  In  winter  and  early  spring  he  will  return 
to  his  beloved  Muse,  to  dally  with  her  in  a  life-long  court- 
ship ;  or,  if  it  is  to  end  in  marriage,  —  for  the  thought  of 
rising  by  literature  does  lurk,  deep  hidden,  in  his  heart,  — 
she  will  take  his  hand  as  a  beneficent  princess  takes  that 
of  a  knightly  though  low-born  suitor,  and  lift  him  at  once 
to  fame  and  fortune.  Uncle  James'  remark  on  the  proba- 
bility of  his  failing  at  labor  as  he  has  failed  at  study,  he 
takes  note  of ;  it  may  be  pleasant  to  teach  Uncle  James 
that  he  can  will  to  work  as  well  as  will  to  play,  and  that, 
though  others  have  lost  the  mastership  of  him,  he  has  not 
lost  mastership  of  himself.  Enough  ;  he  declares  unaltera- 


HARDSHIP.  73 

bly  for  stone  and  lime,  and  becomes  apprentice  to  his  uncle, 
old  David  Wright.  The  engagement  is  understood  to  be 
for  three  years.  In  the  chill  February  morning  of  1820,  he 
takes  his  way  to  the  quarry. 

Eelieved  or  not  relieved  by  touches  of  romance,  Hugh 
Miller's  first  season  of  labor  proves  to  be  one  of  sternest 
hardship,  putting  to  the  strain  his  whole  faculty  of  endur- 
ance. The  dark  side  is  given  in  all  his  contemporary  or 
nearly  contemporary  renderings  of  the  subject ;  the  lights 
in  the  picture  come  out  only  when  it  is  seen  through  the 
vista  of  years.  Still  quite  a  boy,  slender  and  loose- 
jointed,  unintermitted  toil  presses  hard  on  him  both  in 
mind  and  in  body.  His  spirits  fail.  He  is  constantly  in 
pain,  often  prostrated  by  sickness.  He  shows  at  first  no 
quickness  or  dexterity  in  acquiring  his  trade,  and  is  the 
most  awkward  of  the  apprentices.  Uncle  David  begins  to 
be  of  opinion  that  this  incomprehensible  compound  of 
genius  and  dunce  is  incapable -of  attaining  the  skill  of  an 
ordinary  mechanic.  The  lad  is  sorely  tempted  to  become  a 
dram-drinker.  We  have  two  accounts  of  his  triumph  over 
this  temptation,  the  one  harshly  realistic,  of  date  1829,  the 
other  more  picturesque,  dated  1853 . 

"It  is  probable,"  he  writes  to  Baird,  " that  the  want  of 
money  alone  prevented  me  from  indulging,  at  this  period,  in 
the  low  vice  of  dram-drinking."  He  thus  describes  the  affair 
in  "  My  Schools  and  Schoolmasters :  " — "  In  laying  down  the 
foundation-stone  of  one  of  the  larger  houses  built  this  year 
by  Uncle  David  and  his  partner,  the  workmen  had  a  royal 
'  founding-pint,'  and  two  whole  glasses  of  the  whiskey 
came  to  my  share.  A  full-grown  man  would  not  have 
deemed  a  gill  of  usquebaugh  an  overdose,  but  it  was  con- 
siderably too  much  for  me  ;  and  when  the  party  broke  up, 
and  I  got  home  to  my  books,  I  found,  as  I  opened  the 
pages  of  a  favorite  author,  the  letters  dancing  before  my 


74  THE   APPRENTICE. 

eyes,  and  that  I  could  no  longer  master  the  sense.  I  have 
the  volume  at  present  before  me,  —  a  small  edition  of  the 
Essays  of  Bacon,  a  good  deal  worn  at  the  corners  by  the 
friction  of  the  pocket ;  for  of  Bacon  I  never  tired.  The 
condition  into  which  I  had  brought  myself  was,  I  felt,  one 
of  degradation.  I  had  sunk,  by  nry  own  act,  for  the  time, 
to  a  lower  level  of  intelligence  than  that  on  which  it  was 
my  privilege  to  be  placed ;  and  though  the  state  could 
have  been  no  very  favorable  one  for  forming  a  resolution, 
I  in  that  hour  determined  that  I  should  never  again  sacri- 
fice my  capacity  of  intellectual  enjoyment  to  a  drinking 
usage  ;  and,  with  God's  help,  I  was  enabled  to  hold  by  the 
determination."  It  was,  therefore,  not  "  the  want  of 
money  alone"  which  prevented  him  from  becoming  a  tip- 
pler ;  but  we  may  be  permitted  to  think  that  this  little 
circumstance  was  a  valuable  auxiliary  to  Bacon. 

Soon,  also,  there  come  alleviations  of  his  hardship  more 
practical  than  those  derived  from  geological  discovery  and 
admiration  of  Highland  scenery.  As  he  does  not  sink 
under  exertion,  his  physical  stamina  gradually  asserts 
itself,  and  makes  labor  a  source  of  strength.  It  was  a 
characteristic  of  Miller  during  life  that  he  progressed  in 
any  pursuit  not  by  little  and  little,  but  by  leaps.  His 
master  and  fellow-workmen,  who,  during  the  first  months 
of  his  apprenticeship,  have  regarded  him  as  too  awkward  to 
learn  his  trade,  are  suddenly  astonished  to  find  him  one  of 
the  most  expert  hewers  in  the  squad.  "  So  flattered  was 
my  vanity,"  he  writes  to  Baird,  "  by  the  respect  which  they 
paid  me  on  this  account,  and  such  satisfaction  did  I  derive 
from  emulating  them  in  what  they  confessed  the  better 
department  of  their  profession,  that  the  coming  winter,  to 
which,  a  few  .weeks  before,  I  had  looked  forward  as  good 
men  do  to  the  pleasures  of  another  state  of  existence,  was 
no  longer  an  object  of  desire." 


ALLEVIATIONS.  75 

To  throw  down  the  tools,  however,  could  not  but  be  a  re- 
lief, and  the  leisure  of  winter  is  hailed  with  satisfaction. 
After  a  pedestrian  journey  to  Strath-Carron,  in  company 
with  his  cousin,  George  Munro,  in  the  course  of  which  he 
makes  some  observations,  not  of  an  important  character,  on 
an  old  Scotch  forest  of  native  pine,  he  returns  to  Cromarty. 
The  education  of  toil  has  already  done  more  for  him  than 
any  previous  education,  and  the  unruly  boy  has  become  a 
thoughtful,  docile  young  man. 


CHAPTER    II. 

EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS  -  SWANSON,     FINLAY,    ROSS  -  PLEASURES 
OF    THE    IMAGINATION  -  TWO    OF    NATURE'S    GENTLEMEN. 


Ms  early  boyhood  Miller  had  given  proof 
of  the  blended  faithfulness  and  tenderness  of  his 
nature  by  the  affection  with  which  he  clung  to  one 
or  two  chosen  friends.  His  friendship  with  John 
Swanson,  him  of  the  Doocot  cave,  already  warm  and  confi- 
dential when  Hugh  was  twelve  and  John  ten,  continued  in 
freshness  and  intensity  until  the  hour  of  Miller's  death. 
Finlay,  whom  he  describes  as  a  gentle-spirited  boy,  who 
loved  to  share  with  him  the  solitude  of  the  caves  by  moon- 
light, seems  to  have  held  the  first  place  in  his  regard  in  the 
period  immediately  preceding  his  apprenticeship.  In  the 
"Village  Observer"  for  January,  1820,  I  find  "  The  Fare- 
well," a  copy  of  verses  in  which,  on  departing  for  the  south, 
Finlay  bids  adieu  to  Cromarty,  and  which  is  alluded  to  and 
partly  quoted  in  the  u  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  The 
five  stanzas  of  which  it  consists,  though  boyish,  are  not 
without  a  certain  pensive  sincerity  and  sweetness  :  — 

"  Ye  pleasures  of  childhood,  farewell, 

ID  which  I  have  oft  had  a  part  ; 
Where  mirth  and  where  gladness  prevail, 
Without  affectation  or  art. 

"  How  oft  when  the  school  set  me  free, 

I've  wandered  amongst  these  green  woods, 
When  nothing  was  heard  but  the  bee, 
Or  the  cataract  pouring  its  floods. 

76 


WILLIAM   ROSS.  77 

* $  Ye  shepherds  who  merrily  sing, 

And  laugh  out  the  long  summer's  day, 
Expert  at  the  ball  or  the  ring, 
Whose  lives  are  one  routine  of  play ; 

"  To  you  my  dear  crook  I  resign, 

My  colly,  my  pipe,  and  my  horn ; 
To  leave  you  indeed  I  repine, 
But  I  must  away  with  the  morn. 

"  New  scenes  may  arise  on  my  sight, 
The  world  and  its  follies  be  new, 
But  never  such  scenes  of  delight 
Shall  I  witness  secluded  from  you." 

By  far  the  most  remarkable,  however,  of  these  early 
friends  of  Miller  was  William  Ross.  There  are  many 
memorials  of  Ross  in  Miller's  papers,  and  I  can  perceive 
that  the  account  given  of  him  in  the  "  Schools  and  School- 
masters "  is  not  too  highly  colored.  The  child  of  parents 
crushed  into  the  dust  by  poverty,  his  father  half  imbecile,  his 
mother  feeble  in  health  and  broken-spirited,  his  own  ener- 
gies depressed  by  perpetual  sickness,  he  had  received  from 
capricious  nature  a  mental  organization  of  exquisite  delicacy, 
enriched  with  fine  and  tender  elements.  Modest,  gentle, 
affectionate ;  tremulously  alive  to  the  feelings  and  claims 
of  others  ;  depreciating  everything  in  himself,  exalting  every 
capacity  and  accomplishment  of  one  he  loved  ;  unaffectedly 
religious,  and  unmoved  by  utmost  calamity  from  simple 
faith  in  a  divine  care  and  a  heavenly  love,  —  William  Ross 
was  the  very  ideal  of  a  bosom-friend.  There  is  a  letter 
dated  Nigg,  10th  July,  1821,  from  Ross  to  Miller,  which, 
unimportant  as  it  is  otherwise,  will  serve  to  introduce  him 
to  the  reader.  He  had  just  lost  by  death  one  of  the  very  • 
few  who  had  been  kind  to  him  in  his  boyhood- 


78  THE   APPRENTICE. 

"  Where  think  you  have  I  sitten  down  to  write  you?  In 
my  grandmother's  room,  and  before  the  very  table  at  which 
I  once  used  to  read  (in  happier  days)  a  chapter  in  the  big 
old  Bible  and  sing  a  psalm  every  night  and  .morning.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  I  feel.  The  remembrance  of  the  inno- 
cence and  happiness  of  the  days  that  are  gone  has  softened 
my  heart,  indifferent  as  it  has  become  to  the  pure  feelings 
of  devotion.  I  have  done  reading  just  now  the  three  last 
chapters  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  and  with  the  history  of 
the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour  I  was  never  more  affected.  I 
feel  my  soul  raised  above  the  things  of  this  world  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  truly  godlike  patience  with  which,  in 
his  human  nature,  he  bore  the  terrible  evils  which  were 
inflicted  on  him,  and  his  resignation  to  the  will  of  his 
heavenly  Father. 

"  Oh  that  I  could  fix  the  present  mood,  and  render  it  per- 
manent !  What  a  world  of  happiness  dwells  in  the  bosom 
of  the  devout  man ;  amid  all  the  storms  of  adversity  he  has 
a  fortress  and  a  God.  His  hopes  repose  on  that  Prov- 
idence who  has  the  disposal  of  all  events ;  not  knowing 
himself  what  is  good  or  evil  of  the  things  of  this  life,  he 
does  his  duty,  and  trusts  to  his  Father  for  the  rest.  How 
far  different  is  God  from  man !  If  we  ask  his  favor  he 
will  not  withhold  it.  '  To  the  poor  he  is  a  friend,  and  he 
will  not  hide  his  face  from  the  needy.'  I  find  we  must 
love  him  before  we  can  truly  love  one  another.  I  see  this 
love  as  the  master  principle  —  as  the  purifier  of  the  heart ; 
it  warms  our  affections  to  our  friends,  makes  us  grateful  to 
our  benefactors  and  forgiving  to  our  enemies.  Oh,  my 
dear  Miller,  bear  with  me  now  as  you  have  often  done 
before  !  I  am  weak  as  a  child. 

"  My  mind  is  filled  with  recollections  of  the  joys  that  are 
gone,  and  the  dear  sainted  friend  that  has  left  me.  I  went 
to  her  house,  but  I  did  not  see  her  waiting  my  approach, 


WILLIAM    ROSS.  79 

her  feet  did  not  sound  in  the  passage  as  I  entered  the  door ; 
'  my  dear  Willie/  was  not  heard  on  my  unexpected  appear- 
ance. The  good  hand  that  once  nursed  me  was  not 
stretched  out  with  an  air  of  tender  affection  towards  me. 
I  looked  to  the  place  where  she  used  to  sit,  but  she  was  not 
there ;  in  her  bodily  shape  I  did  not  behold  her,  yet  her 
image  was  before  me,  and  all  the  good  she  did  me  was 
present  in  iny  view.  What  a  vacancy  is  here !  •  what  a 
change  has  death  made  to  me !  But  I  must  have  done ; 
the  last  light  of  evening  is  taking  its  leave.  Good-by." 

The  difference  between  the  character  of  Miller,  who  met 
every  check  and  insult  with  pugnacity,  and  that  of  Boss, 
whose  gentleness  was  feminine,  and  who  could  not  bear  to 
be  thought  ill  of  even  by  those  who  acted  to  him  meanly 
and  unkindly,  tended  probably  to  cement  their  friendship. 
The  proceedings  of  Ross  on  completing  his  apprenticeship, 
and  commencing  practice  as  a  house-painter  on  his  own 
account,  illustrate  in  a  touching  manner  his  simplicity  and 
kindliness.  The  master  who  had  enjoyed  his  services  for 
five  years  —  and  valuable  services  they  were,  for  William's 
talent  in  his  vocation  was  eminent  —  seems  to  have  quite 
cast  him  off  when  his  term  expired.  He  writes  to  Mil- 
ler :  — 

"  Want  stared  me  in  the  face ;  and,  having  determined 
not  to  be  a  burden  to  any,  I  meant  to  leave,  if  I  possibly 
could,  the  place  ;  for,  though  I  had  no  prospect  of  employ- 
ment, I  deemed  it  better  to  starve  among  strangers  (if 

nothing  else  awaited  me)  than  in  this  country 

On   the   Tuesday  after  you  had  left  me  I  waited  on  Mr. 

,  and  told  him  what  I  meant  to  do  if  he  would  trust 

me.  He  would  not ;  and  after  so  downright  a  refusal  you 
cannot  imagine  the  perturbed  state  of  my  mind.  What 
hurt  me  most  was  that  he  should  have  doubted  my  probity. 
I  then  went  straight  to  Mr. ,  to  see  what  he  thought  of 


80  THE    APPRENTICE. 

me ;  for  after  the  first  shock  was  over  I  was  indifferent  to 
what  I  might  meet  with.  He  was  not  quite  so  direct  with 
me,  but  what  he  said  amounted  to  a  refusal  too.  Before 
evening  I  had  paid  them  both,  which  so  reduced  my  slender 
finances  that  I  could  go  nowhere,  and  here,  without  money 
or  employment,  I  could  not  well  stay.  The  Mend  who 
would  have  sympathized  with  me  was  gone ;  and  perhaps, 
'twas  better  that  he  was.  The  way  in  which  I  have  been 
treated  could  not  but  have  hurt  you. 

"  Now  that  you  have  my  worst  news,  I  will  tell  you  bet- 
ter. Colonel  G sent  for  me  to  refresh  the  walls  of  his 

dining-room,  and  gave  me  5s.  when  I  had  done.  Soon 
after  I  saw  Mr. ,  who  asked-  me  whether  I  was  em- 
ployed, and  told  me,  on  my  replying  in  the  negative,  that 

his  brother-in-law,  Mr. ,  had  bought  paint  at  London, 

and  was  looking  out  for  some  one  to  paint  his  house  for 
him  by  the  day.  I  would  do  the  work  most  readily,  I  said, 
but  as  my  old  master  had  thought  of  getting  it  for  himself, 
I  could  not  think  of  interfering.  He  assured  me,  however, 
that  that  was  out  of  the  question,  as  it  was  owing  to  the 

exorbitancy  of  my  master's  estimate  that  Mr.  had 

procured  the  materials  for  himself.  I  accordingly  went 

and  settled  with  Mr.  for  the  work  at  3s.  per  day. 

This  will  make  a  sad  change,  I  am  afraid,  in  all  I  enjoyed 
of  the  favorable  opinion  of  my  master ;  but  I  can't  help 
it/-' 

Was  there  not  a  delicacy  of  honor  in  the  reluctance  of 
the  lad,  whom  starvation  actually  stared  in  the  face,  to  ac- 
cept work  which  his  old  master  had  "  thought  of  getting," 
such  as  is  rarely  met  with  in  any  rank  of  life  ?  In  a  letter 
written  shortly  afterwards,  we  have  this  note  of  that  mas- 
ter's conduct :  "  I  came  here  to  furnish  brushes  for  the 
work,  but  my  master  would  sell  me  none."  Brushes,  how- 
over,  were  obtained,  and  lie  proceeds :  "  I  am  happier  in 


WILLIAM   ROSS.  81 

my  mind  than  usual.  There  are  glimpses  of  sunshine 
breaking  out  upon  me,  and  a  less  troubled  sky  overhead. 
Oh,  how  grateful  ought  I  to  be  to  that  bounteous  Benefactor 
who  knows  our  wants,  and  can  and  will  supply  them !  I 
hardly  know,  my  dear  Miller,  how  to  conclude.  I  trust  I 
am  grateful  to  him  for  you  too."  It  must  have  been  a 
sweetly  toned  nature  which  unkindness  so  bitter  did  not 
provoke  to  one  angry  word,  and  which  was  so  easily  stimu- 
lated to  childlike  gladness  and  to  pious  gratitude.  In  the 
deep  forest  one  beam  penetrates  to  the  wounded  bird,  and  it 
breaks  on  the  instant  into  song. 

We  shall  take  another  extract  from  these  letters  of  Wil- 
liam Ross.  It  is  interesting  not  only  from  its  references  to 
himself,  but  on  account  of  the  few  bold  and  vigorous 
strokes  with  which  it  sketches-  Miller's  uncles,  James  and 
Alexander  Wright,  and  still  more  because  of  its  vivid 
glimpse  of  the  boy  Miller  :  "  I  trust  I  am  no  misanthrope  ; 
but,  with  one  exception,  —  and  on  that  one  I  need  not  be 
very  explicit  in  writing  to  you,  —  it  is  dead  and  inanimate 
nature  that  I  derive  all  my  pleasures  from,  not  the  world 

of  men.     I  have  but  one  friend Really,  my 

dear  Miller,  I  am  one  of  the  weakest  young  fellows  I  ever 
knew.  All  that  is  worth  anything  in  me  lies  on  the  sur- 
face of  my  character,  —  a  little  taste,  perhaps,  a  little 
fancy,  and  more  than  a  little  warmth  of  heart ;  but  I  have 
no  energy  of  will,  no  strength  of  judgment ;  I  feel  I  cannot 
come  in  contact  with  superior  men  without  sinking  into  a 
mere  nonentity,  and  losing  all  command  of  even  the  few 
powers  I  have.  I  always  felt  thus  when  in  company  with 
your  uncles  ;  they  are  both  strong-minded  men,  —  strong 
in  sentiment  and  intellect,  —  and  there  is  a  depth  and  mas- 
siveness  in  their  character  which  common  circumstances 
fail  to  render  apparent  to  the  unobservant,  but  which  I 
have  felt  as  if  by  instinct.  Hence,  perhaps,  my  profound 


82  THE    APPRENTICE. 

esteem  for  them ;  but  hence,  also,  my  want  of  sympathy 
with  them.  Had  you  yourself  been  other  than  a  boy  when 
our  intimacy  was  first  formed,  I  would  not  now,  it  is  prob- 
able, be  on  my  present  terms  with  you.  We  met  in  an 
hour  propitious  to  friendship.  I  could  not  feel  myself  in- 
ferior to  the  wayward,  warm-hearted  boy,  who  besought  me 
so  anxiously  to  become  attached  to  him,  who  admired  my 
bad  drawings,  and  saw  very  superior  sense  in  my  simple 
disjointed  remarks.  Your  force  of  character  at  the  same 
time  was  shown  in  but  mere  boyish  rebellion  which  one 
could  laugh  at ;  your  firmness  was  but  obstinacy.  You 
were  a  mere  cub,  though  a  lion-cub,  —  a  mere  sapling, 
though  sprung  from  the  acorn." 

Such  was  the  young  man  with  whom  Miller  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  on  being  relieved  from  the  labors 
of  his  first  year  of  apprenticeship.  He  read  his  poems  to 
Ross,  and  showed  him  his  drawings.  Hugh  had  formed  a 
high  estimate  of  both,  and  the  undercurrent  of  critical 
severity  which  invariably  accompanied  his  friend's  applause, 
though  not  strong  enough  to  damp  his  ardor,  was  useful 
in  giving  precision  to  his  ideas  of  himself.  Ross  had  pen- 
etration enough  to  discern  that  a  certain  imaginative  glow, 
which  threw  out  objects,  as  it  were,  in  aerial  perspective, 
and  cast  over  them  a  pleasing  light  of  fancy  or  association, 
belonged  to  Miller.  In  their  walks  in  the  wood  or  by  the 
shore,  he  encouraged  Hugh  to  cultivate  literature,  applaud- 
ing "  the  wild  vigor  of  his  imagination,"  sfad  hinting  that 
his  word-pictures  of  the  moment  revealed  more  of  poetical 
genius  than  the  formal  productions  either  of  his  pencil  or 
his  pen.  "  There  is  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town  of  Cro- 
inarty,"  writes  Miller  to  Baird,  giving  him  an  illustration 
of  the  kind  of  imaginative  fantasia  with  which  he  used  to 
entertain  his  friend,  "  a  beautiful,  thickly- wooded  dell, 
through  the  bottom  of  which  there  runs  a  small  streamlet. 


MOONLIGHT   FANCIES.  83 

This  dell  was  one  of  our  favorite  night  haunts.  In  winter, 
when  the  trees  are  bare  of  foliage,  the  moonbeams,  when 
the  moon  is  at  full,  find  their  way  to  the  water,  though  the 
steep  banks  on  either  side  are  lost  in  the  shade.  The  ap- 
pearance when  viewed  from  some  of  the  overhanging  thick- 
ets is  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  when  contemplating  it  in 
the  company  of  my  friend,  I  have  in  the  wild  extravagance 
of  fancy  compared  the  little  moonlight  brook  to,  —  I  know 
not  how  many  different  objects,  —  to  a  pictured  flash  of  pale 
lightning,  —  to  a  stream  of  lava,  —  to  a  rippling  strip  of  the 
Aurora  Borealis.  I  have  termed  the  little  dell  a  dark 
oblong  mirror,  and  flie  bright  streamlet  in  its  centre  the 
reflection  of  the  milky  way.  I  have  described  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  and  the  stones  which  were  relieved  by  the  light 
from  the  shade  behind,  as  fays  and  spectres  by  which  the 
place  was  tenanted.  I  have  even  given  a  minute  detail  of 
the  particular  expression  of  their  features  and  the  peculi- 
arities of  their  attire." 

Ross'  advice  to  Miller  on  the  whole  was  as  follows : 
"Your  drawings  have  but  little  merit,  nor  can  I  regard 
them  even  as  works  of  promise ;  neither  by  any  means  do 
you  .write  good  verses.  And  why,  do  you  think,  do  I  tell 
you  so  ?  Only  to  direct  your  studies  to  their  proper  object. 
You  draw  ill,  because  nature  never  intended  that  you  should 
do  otherwise  ;  whereas  you  write  ill  only  because  you  write 
seldom.  You  are  possessed  of  talents  which,  with  due  culture, 
will  enable  you  to  attain  no  common  command  of  the  pen ; 
for  you  are  an  original  thinker,  your  mind  is  richly  imbued 
with  poetry,  and,  though  devoid  of  a  musical  ear,  you  have, 
from  nature,  something  much  better,  —  that  perception  of 
the  harmonies  of  language  which  is  essential  to  the  forma- 
tion of  a  good  and  elegant  style."  So  far  as  I  can  judge, 
no  critic  in  Europe  could  have  more  correctly  estimated 
Miller's  capacity  at  the  time,  or  given  him  better  advice. 


84  THE    APPRENTICE. 

A  spectator,  observing  these  lads,  the  one  apprenticed  to 
a  mason,  the  other  to  a  house-painter,  would  hardly  have 
guessed  the  nature  of  their  conversation.  Had  they  been 
youths  of  aristocratic  birth  or  university  distinction,  could 
their  intercourse  have  been  more  completely  that  of  gentle- 
men? We  may  note  how  steadily  Hugh  pushes  forward 
what,  without  much  conscious  resolving  on  the  subject,  has 
become  the  purpose  of  his  life,  —  self-culture.  With  quiet 
persistence,  undistracted  by  the  commencement  of  lifelong 
toil  as  a  mason,  he  cherishes  the  ambition  of  maturing  his 
powers  of  thought  and  expression.  Attesting,  also,  the 
radical  nobleness  of  his  character,  and  the  high  tone  of  the 
society  in  which  he  had  lived,  this  circumstance  is  to  be 
noted,  —  that  the  ambition  of  making  money  never  seized 
him.  The  big  bells  of  Babylon  dinning  into  all  young  ears, 
never  more  loudly  than  in  our  age,  their  invitation  to  make 
fortunes,  had  no  persuasion  for  him.  To  extend  the  empire 
of  his  mind,  to  enrich  and  beautify  the  garden  of  his  soul, 
this  was  what  presented  itself  as  a  supreme  object  of  ambi- 
tion to  our  Scottish  boy  of  eighteen,  with  a  mallet  in  his 
hand. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CONON-SIDE A   MANIAC     FRIEND LIFE     IN   THE    BARRACK 

WANDERINGS   IN   THE     WOODS SCENERY     OF   CONON-SIDE 

AT    HOME    AGAIN. 

the  spring  of  1821  Miller  resumed  his  labors.  In 
the  latter  end  of  May,  his  master  had  finished  the 
work  contracted  for  in  the  district  of  Cromarty, 
and,  as  no  more  contracts  were  to  be  had,  was 
compelled  to  descend  from  the  position  of  master  and  seek 
employment  as  journeyman.  The  apprentice  he  had  taken 
at  the  same  time  with  Miller  seized  the  opportunity  of 
regaining  his  freedom,  and  setting  up  as  journeyman  on  his 
own  account ;  and  one  might  have  thought  that  the  wilful, 
headstrong  lad,  who  had  set  his  uncles  and  his  schoolmas- 
ters at  defiance,  would  have  followed  this  example.  But 
Hugh  was  no  longer  the  turbulent  school-boy  of  sixteen, 
and  among  the  qualities  which  had  ripened  in  the  whole- 
some atmosphere  of  labor  was  a  profound  sense  of  justice. 
He  continued  to  serve  old  David  Wright,  and  proceeded 
with  him  to  the  banks  of  the  Conon,  a  river  which  falls  into 
the  Cromarty  Frith  at  its  western  extremity.  On  reaching 
Conon-side,  they  found  that  the  scene  of  their  occupation 
lay  a  few  miles  farther  to  the  west,  and  for  four  weeks  they 
were  employed  in  building  a  jointure-house  for  the  widow 
of  a  Highland  proprietor.  Miller  describes  the  country 
around  as  "  somewhat  bare  and  drear y,  —  a  scene  of  bogs 
and  moors,  overlooked  by  a  range  of  tame,  heathy  hills." 

85 


86  THE   APPRENTICE. 

It  was  while  here  that  he  became  acquainted  with  that 
remarkable  maniac  of  whom  he  has  left  an  account  in  the 
"  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  Looking  at  midnight  from 
the  window  in  the  loft  in  which  he  slept,  he  beheld  a  light 
moving  among  the  ruins  of  an  old  chapel  and  the  graves  of 
the  surrounding  burial-ground.  It  was  carried  in  the 
hand  of  the  escaped  maniac.  He  attracted  her  attention 
and  secured  her  regard  by  interfering  on  her  behalf  when 
she  was  being  chained  down  on  the  damp  floor  of  her  hut. 
Of  a  naturally  powerful  though  completely  disordered  intel- 
lect, she  had  sagacity  enough  to  discover  that  Miller  was 
of  a  different  strain  from  his  fellow-masons,  and  entertained 
him  with  stories  of  the  Highlands  and  anecdotes  of  her 
deceased  brother,  a  preacher  of  reputation.  She  loved  to 
discuss  the  most  abstruse  questions  of  metaphysical  the- 
ology. That  every  human  soul  is  immediately  created  by 
God,  not  transmitted  from  a  human  ancestor,  she  declared 
herself  to  be  fully  convinced ;  but,  then,  how  to  account 
for  the  influence  exerted  on  all  souls  by  the  fall?  It  would 
take  a  powerful  theologian,  sane  or  insane,  to  answer  this 
question.  Miller  informed  her  that  a  great  authority 
thought  it  might  be  "by  way  of  natural  concomitancy,  as 
Estius  will  have  it ;  or,  to  speak  as  Dr.  Reynolds  doth,  by 
way  of  ineffable  resultancy  and  emanation."  "  As  this,"  he 
adds,  "  was  perfectly  unintelligible,  it  seemed  to  satisfy  my 
new  friend."  A  singular  pair  on  the  black  Ross-shire 
moor !  It  is  only,  I  suppose,  in  Scotland  that  masons' 
apprentices  and  female  maniacs  engage  in  abstruse  meta- 
physical discussions. 

The  jointure-house  finished,  Miller  bids  adieu  to  his  mad 
friend,  and  returns  to  Conon-side.  He  is  now,  for  the  first 
time,  introduced  to  the  barrack  or  bothy  life  of  a  squad  of 
masons.  A  description  of  the  barrack  and  the  scene  it  pre- 
sented on  his  first  becoming  one  of  its  inmates  occurs  in 


THE    BARRACK.  87 

his  letter  to  Baird.  "  I  followed,"  he  writes,  "  the  horde 
into  their  barrack.  It  consisted  of  one  large  apartment. 
Along  the  wall,  and  across  one  of  the  gables,  there  was  a 
range  of  beds  rudely  constructed  of  outside  slab  deals,  and 
filled  with  straw,  which  bristled  from  beneath  the  blankets 
and  from  between  the  crevices  of  the  frames  in  a  manner 
much  less  neat  than  picturesque.  At  each  bedside  there 
were  two  chests,  which  served  not  only  the  purpose  origi- 
nally intended,  but  also  for  chairs  and  tables.  Suspended 
by  ropes  from  the  rafters  above,  there  hung,  at  the  height 
of  a  man's  head  from  the  ground,  several  bags  filled  with 
oat-meal,  which  by  this  contrivance  was  secured  from  the 
rats,- with  which  the  place  was  infested.  Along  the  gable 
furthest  removed  from  the  door  there  was  a  huge  wood  fire  ; 
above  it  there  were  hung  several  small  pots,  enveloped  in 
smoke,  which,  for  lack  of  proper  vent,  after  filling  the  whole 
barrack,  escaped  by  the  door.  Before  the  fire  there  was  a 
row  of  stones,  each  of  which  supported  an  oaten  cake.  The 
inmates,  who  exceeded  twenty,  had  disposed  of  themselves 
in  every  possible  manner.  Some  were  lounging  in  the 
beds,  others  were  seated  on  the  chests.  Two  of  them  were 
dancing  -on  the  floor  to  the  whistling  of  a  third.  There  was 
one  employed  in  baking,  another  in  making  ready  the 
bread.  The  chaos  of  sounds  which  reigned  among  them 
was  much  more  complete  than  that  which  appalled  their 
prototypes,  the  builders  of  Babel.  There  was  the  gabbling 
of  Saxon,  the  sputtering  of  Gaelic,  the  humming  of  church 
music,  the  whistling  of  the  musician,  and  the  stamping  of 
the  dancers.  Three  of  the  pots  on  the  fire  began  to  boil 
together,  and  there  was  a  cry  for  the  cook.  He  came  rush- 
ing forward,  pushed  the  man  engaged  in  baking  from  out 
his  way  with  one  hand,  and,  drawing  the  seat  from  under 
the  one  employed  in  making  ready  the  bread  with  the  other, 
he  began  to  shout  out,  so  as  to  drown  their  united  voices, 


88  THE   APPRENTICE. 

* 

for  meal  and  salt.  Both  were  brought  him,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  he  had  completed  his  task." 

Wild  companions,  a  wild  lodging,  and  wild  mode  of  life  ; 
nor  can  much  bodily  comfort  be  associated  with  the  idea  of 
a  diet  whose  sole  variation  is  from  oatmeal  in  porridge  to 
oatmeal  in  cakes  ;  but  Miller  is  not  unhappy.  He  is  now 
recognized  as  a  good  workman,  and  his  frame  is  more  capa- 
ble of  labor  than  in  the  previous  season.  His  spirit  is 
buoyant,  and  full  of  gay,  hopeful  humor ;  and  his  readiness 
to  take  and  return  a  jest,  together  with  his  sprightliness  and 
his  obliging  disposition,  secure  him  the  good-will  of  his 
companions.  On  the  long  summer  evenings,  when  work  is 
over,  he  can  wander  about  the  district,  climbing  its  ridges 
of  hill,  exploring  its  ruins  and  natural  curiosities,  diving 
into  the  recesses  of  its  woods,  and  following  the  course  of 
its  streams.  He  is  still  boy  enough  to  enjoy  the  raspberries 
which  grow  in  the  woods,  and  the  poetry  of  his  nature  finds 
aliment  in  the  new  and  picturesque  aspects  of  hill  and  plain 
which  every  eminence  reveals  to  him. 

The  district  of  Miller's  sojourn  at  this  time,  dreary  and 
bare  though  he  calls  it,  is  not  without  its  pleasing  and  im- 
pressive features.  Gaunt  hills  rise  everywhere,  warming  at 
autumn,  when  the  heather  blooms,  into  solemn  glow  of 
purple,  but  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year  presenting  a 
surface  of  black-brown,  fringed  here  and  there  with  fir  or 
plumed  with  birch.  The  gray  crag  pierces  the  moor,  the 
gray  mist  trails  wearily  along  the  hill-summits.  A  marked 
feature  of  tne  scenery  is  the  gracefully  drooping,  delicately 
waving  birch  foliage,  which  stoops  to  the  frequent  water- 
course, or  hangs  tremulous  over  the  surface  of  the  lake,  the 
white  stems  relieved  against  the  russet  heath,  or  vying  with 
the  whiter  foam  of  the  cascade.  Over  all  towers  the  bald 
forehead  of  Ben  Wyvis,  a  thousand  feet  above  the  highest 
of  the  encircling  hills,  and  with  a  few  white  snow-gleams 


STRATHPEFFER.  89 

lingering  among  its  crags  and  comes  even  in  the  height  of 
summer.  Between  the  ridges  and  in  the  basins  of  the  hills, 
the  lakes  are  numerous,  and  from  the  higher  elevations,  as 
the  eye  looks  through  curtains  of  mist,  opening  and  closing 
in  majestic  change,  the  broad  flash  of  their  golden  mirrors, 
girdled  by  the  ebon  hills,  is  seen  striking  upwards  with  a 
resplendence  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  gentler  aspects  of  the  scenery  appear,  however,  to 
have  chiefly  attracted  Miller.  *'  Strathpeffer,"  he  wrote  to 
Baird,  "  one  of  the  finest  valleys  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try, lies  within  five  miles  of  Conon-side.  My  walks  occa- 
sionally extended  to  it ;  and  I  still  retain  a  vividly-pleasing 
recollection  of  its  enchanting  scenery,  with  the  more  pleas- 
ing features  of  the  scenes  through  which  I  passed  on  my 
way  to  it.  There  is  in  its  vicinity  a  beautiful  little  lake, 
which  contains  a  wooded  island.  Along  the  banks  of  this 
lake  I  have  sauntered  for  whole  hours  ;  and  from  the  green 
top  of  Knockferrol,  one  of  the  hills  by  which  the  valley  is 
bounded,  I  have  seen  the  sun  sink  behind  Ben  Wyvis,  with- 
out once  thinking  that  I  was  five  miles  from  my  place  of 
residence." 

But  he  was  not  exclusively  engaged  on  these  occasions  in 
view-hunting.  "  I  have  not  even  yet,"  he  adds,  "  summed 
up  the  whole  of  my  evening  amusements.  They  were  not 
all  equally  poetical.  The  country  round  Conon-side 
abounds  with  wild  fruit,  and  I  have  feasted  among  fhe 
woods,  during  my  long  rambles,  on  gueens,  rowans,  rasp- 
berries, and  blae-berries,  with  all  the  keenness  of  boyish 
appetite.  The  fruit  furnished  me  with  an  ostensible  object 
for  my  wanderings  ;  and  when  coinplimented  by  a  romantic 
young  girl,  who  had  derived  her  notions  of  character  from 
the  reading  of  romances,  on  that  disposition  which  led  me 
to  seek  my  pleasures  in  solitude,  I  could  remark  in  reply 
that  I  was  not  more  fond  of  solitude  than  of  raspberries." 


90  THE   APPRENTICE. 

Thirty  years  afterwards,  in  the  "Schools  and  School- 
masters," he  refers  to  his  walks  by  Conon-side  in  these 
terms :  "I  greatly  enjoyed  those  evening  walks.  From 
Conon-side  as  a  centre,  a  radius  of  six  miles  commands 
many  objects  of  interest,  —  Strathpeffer,  with  its  mineral 
springs  ;  Castle  Leod,  with  its  ancient  trees,  among  the  rest 
one  of  the  largest  Spanish  chestnuts  in  Scotland ;  Knock- 
ferrol,  with  its  vitrified  fort ;  the  old  tower  of  Fairburn ; 
the  old,  though  somewhat  modernized,  tower  of  Kinkell ; 
the  Brahan  policies,  with  the  old  castle  of  the  Seaforths ; 
the  old  castle  of  Kilcoy;  and  the  Druidic  circles  of  the 

moor  of  Redcastle My  recollections  of  this 

rich  tract  of  country,  with  its  woods  and  towers,  and  noble 
river,  seem  as  if  bathed  in  the  red  light  of  gorgeous  sun- 
sets." 

In  a  letter,  otherwise  unimportant,  to  William  Ross, 
written,  as  I  conclude,  after  he  had  returned  to  Cromarty 
for  the  winter,  there  occurs  this  reference  to  the  same 
period :  "  When  the  task  of  the  day  was  over,  and  I 
walked  out  amid  the  fields  and  woods  to  enjoy  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  it  was  then  that  I  was  truly  happy.  Before 
me  the  Conon  rolled  her  broad  stream  to  the  sea ;  behind,  I 
seemed  shut  up  from  all  intercourse  with  mankind  by  a 
thick  and  gloomy  wood,  while  the  tower  of  Fairburn  *  and 
the  blue  hills  behind  it  formed  the  distant  landscape.  Not 
a  cloud  rose  upon  the  sky,  not  a  salmon  glided  beneath  me 
in  the  river,  nor  a  leaf  shook  upon  the  alders  that  o'erhung 
the  stream,  but  raised  some  poetic  emotion  in  my  breast." 

It  was  late  in  the  year  when  he  returned  to  Cromarty. 
Nearly  a  month  of  winter  had  passed.  Ross  was  now  re- 
siding in  the  cottage  of  his  parents,  on  the  northern  side  of 

*  The  accompanying  drawing  was  executed  by  Miller  a  few  years 
subsequently  to  the  time  when  he  worked  in  the  vicinity  of  the  old 
tower  of  Fairburn. 


IN    CROMARTY   AGAIN.  91 

Cromarty  Frith,  and  Miller  lacked  the  stimulus  of  his  liter- 
ary sympathy.  u  What  remained  of  the  season,"  he  wrote 
to  Baird,  "  together  with  the  greater  part  of  the  ensuing 
spring,  was  spent  in  profitless  indolence.  I  neither  wrote 
verses  nor  drew  pictures,  but  wandered  during  the  day 
through  the  fields  and  woods,  and  among  the  rocks  of  the 
hill  of  Cromarty ;  and  my  evenings  were  commonly  spent 
either  in  the  workshop  of  my  Uncle  James,  where  a  few  of 
the  more  intelligent  mechanics  of  the  place  generally  met, 
or  in  the  company  of  a  new  acquaintance."  This  was  the 
helpless  cripple,  described  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmas- 
ters "  as  "  poor  lame  Danie,"  who,  with  his  old  mother, 
occupied  "  a  damp,  underground  room."  Miller  formed  a 
friendship  with  the  suffering  boy,  and  took  delight  in  alle- 
viating the  tedium  of  his  lingering  illness. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

RETURNS    TO     CONON-SIDE  —  MAKES     HIMSELF    RESPECTED   IN 

THE    BARRACK COMPANIONS ATTEMPTS    GEOMETRY   AND 

ARCHITECTURE  HARDSHIPS  EXPERIMENT  IN  NECRO- 
MANCY   DREAM THE  BOTHY  SYSTEM LITERARY  REC- 
REATIONS —  TEDIUM  END  OF  APPRENTICESHIP  THE 

BLESSING   OF   LABOR  —  PRACTICAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

HE  working  season  of  1822  finds  him  again  on 
Conon-side.  He  is  now  in  the  third  year  of  his 
apprenticeship,  and  he  feels  that  he  has  a  position 
in  the  barrack.  "  I  had  determined,"  —  the  words 
are  from  the  letter  to  Baird,  —  "  early  this  season,  to  con- 
form to  every  practice  of  the  barrack,  and,  as  I  was  an  apt 
pupil,  I  had  in  a  short  time  become  one  of  the  freest,  and 
not  the  least  rude,  of  its  inmates.  I  became  an  excellent 
baker,  and  one  of  the  most  skilful  of  cooks.  I  made  won- 
derful advances  in  the  art  of  practical  joking,  and  my  bon- 
mots  were  laughed  at  and  repeated.  There  were  none .  of 
my  companions  who  could  foil  me  in  wrestling,  or  who 
could  leap  within  a  foot  of  me  ;  and  after  having  taken  the 
slight  liberty  of  knocking  down  a  young  fellow  who  in- 
sulted me,  they  all  began  to  esteem  me  as  a  lad  of  spirit 
and  promise." 

The  foreman  of  the  squad  with  which  he  worked  appears 
to  have  exerted  some  influence  upon  his  mind.  "  When  a 
young  man,"  writes  Miller,  "  he  had  bent  his  excellent  nat- 
ural parts  to  the  study  of  his  profession,  and  he  became  so 

92 


THE    FOREMAN.  93 

skilful  in  it  as  to  be  intrusted  with  the  superintendence  of 
a  party  of  workmen  while  yet  an  apprentice.  His  early  pro- 
ficiency was  a  subject  of  wonder  to  his  less  gifted  compan- 
ions ;  he  was  much  gratified  by  their  admiration,  and 
acquired  that  appetite  for  praise  which  is  of  so  general 
experience,  and  which  in  many  instances  becomes  more 
keen  the  more  it  is  supplied  with  food.  He  had  too  much 
sense  to  be  open  to  the  direct  flatteries  of  other  people,  but 
he  was  not  skilful  in  detecting  his  own ;  and  having  at- 
tained, in  the  limited  circle  to  which  circumstances  confined 
him,  the  fame  of  being  talented,  he  set  himself  to  acquire 
the  reputation  of  being  generous  and  warm-hearted ;  and 
this,  perhaps,  for  he  was  naturally  of  a  cold  temperament, 
from  that  singular  weakness  incident  to  human  nature, 
which  has  so  frequently  the  effect  of  making  even  men  of 
reflection  derive  more  pleasure  from  the  praise  of  the  quali- 
ties or  talents  of  which  they  are  destitute,  than  of  those 
which  they  really  possess.  When  treating  his  companions, 
he  was  rendered  happy  by  believing  they  entertained  an 
opinion  of  him  similar  to  that  with  which  he  regarded  him- 
self;  and  that  they  would  describe  him  to  others  as  one 
whose  head  and  heart  were  the  warmest  and  clearest  they 
had  ever  met  with.  A  few  years'  experience  of  the  world 
convinced  him  that  his  expectations  were  miserably  un- 
founded. He  saw,  or  at  least  thought  he  did,  that  every 
man  he  came  in  contact  with  had  himself  for  his  centre ; 
and,  though  unacquainted  with  the  maxims  of  Rochefoucault, 
he  concluded  with  that  philosopher  that  the  selfish  principle 
is  the  spring  of  all  human  action.  The  consequence  of  this 
conclusion  was  a  misanthropy  of  the  most  sincere  and  un- 
affected kind.  So  sincere  was  it  that  he  made  no  profession 
of  it ;  unlike  those  silly,  would-be  misanthropes  who,  while 
they  affect  a  hatred  of  their  kind,  take  care  to  inform  them 


94  THE    APPRENTICE. 

of  that  hatred,  lest  they  should  fail  of  attracting  their 
notice." 

"  I  was  advised  by  this  man,"  proceeds  Miller,  "  to  study 
geometry  and  architecture.  With  the  latter  I  had  pre- 
viously been  acquainted  ;  of  the  former  I  was  entirely  igno- 
rant. I  had  not  even  a  single  correct  idea  of  it.  The 
study  of  a  few  detached  hours,  though  passed  amid  the  dis- 
traction of  a'  barrack,  made  me  master  of  the  language 
peculiar  to  the  science ;  and  I  was  then  surprised  to  find 
how  wide  a  province  it  opens  to  the  mental  powers,  and  to 
discover  that  what  is  termed  mathematical  skill  means  only 
an  ability  of  reasoning  on  the  forms  and  properties  of  lines 
and  figures,  acquired  by  good  sense  being  patiently  directed 
to  their  consideration.  I  perceived,  however,  that  from 
prosecuting  this  study  I  could  derive  only  amusement,  and 
that,  too,  not  of  a  kind  the  most  congenial  to  my  particular 
cast  of  mind.  I  had  no  ambition  to  rise  by  any  of  the  pro- 
fessions in  which  it  is  necessary  ;  and  I  chose  rather  to  ex- 
ercise the  faculties  proper  to  be  employed  in  it  in  the  wide 
field  of  nature  and  of  human  affairs,  —  in  tracing  causes  to 
their  effects,  and  effects  to  their  causes ;  in  classing  to- 
gether things  similar,  and  in  marking  the  differences  of 
things  unlike.  The  study  of  architecture  I  found  more 
amusing ;  partly,  I  believe,  because  it  tasked  me  less ; 
partly  because  it  gratified  my  taste,  and  exercised  my 
powers  of  invention.  In  geometry  I  saw  that  I  could  only 
follow  the  footsteps  of  others,  and  that  I  would  be  necessi- 
tated to  pursue  the  beaten  track  for  whole  years-  before  I 
could  reach  that  latest  discovered  extremity  of  it,  beyond 
which  there  lies  undiscovered,  untrodden  regions,  in  which 
it  would  be  a  delight  to  expatiate.  Architecture,  on  the 
contrary,  appeared  to  me  a  field  of  narrow  boundaries.  I 
could  see  at  one  glance  both  over  it  and  beyond  it.  I  have 
found  that  the  grotesque  cottage  of  a  Highland  peasant, 


HARDSHIP   AND    DEPRESSION.  95 

the  hut  of  a  herd-boy,  a  cavern  half  veiled  over  with  trail- 
ing plants,  an  opening  in  a  wood,  in  short,  a  countless 
variety  of  objects  of  art  and  nature,  supplied  me  with  ideas 
which,  though  connected  with  it,  had  not  become  part 
of  it." 

From  mathematics,  therefore,  as  previously  from  classics, 
Hugh  Miller  turned  aside.  The  circumstance  is  perhaps  to 
be  regretted,  and  yet  with  the  former  reservation,  that  any 
severe  and  systematic  course  of  study  would  have  inter- 
fered with  that  natural  and  spontaneous  development  which 
inade  him  what  he  was. 

His  apprenticeship  had  begun  with  trying  experiences, 
and  its  termination  was  marked  also  by  extremity  of  hard- 
ship. In  the  September  of  this  year,  1822,  his  master  ob- 
tained work  as  a  contractor  on  a  farm  a  few  miles  from 
Cromarty,  and  he  and  Miller  bade  adieu  to  Conon-side.  A 
wall  was  to  be  built  and  a  farmsteading  to  be  repaired,  and, 
as  the  season  was  advanced,  and  David  Wright  could  afford 
to  employ  no  labor  in  addition  to  his  own  and  that  of  his 
apprentice,  Miller  and  he  worked  from  dawn  until  night- 
fall. Their  work  was  of  the  most  painful  kind  :  "  clay  after 
day,  with  wet  feet,  in  a  water-logged  ditch,"  laying  stone 
upon  stone,  until  the  cuticle  was  worn  away,  and  the  fingers 
oozSd  blood.  In  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  Miller 
describes  the  labor  of  this  time  as  "  torture."  "  How  these 
poor  hands  of  mine,"  he  says,  "  burnt  and  beat  at  night  at 
this  time,  as  if  an  unhappy  heart  had  been  stationed  in 
every  finger !  and  what  cold  chills  used  to  run,  sudden  as 
electric  shocks,  through  the  feverish  frame  ! "  His  health 
was  affected ;  a  dull,  depressing  pain  weighed  upon  his 
chest,  and  there  were  symptoms  of  pectoral  blood-spitting. 
He  lost  his  spirits,  and  thought  he  was  going  to  die. 

Of  his  state  of  mind  at  this  time  we  have  two  illustra- 
tions, the  one  given  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters," 


96  THE    APPRENTICE. 

the  other  in  the  letter  to  Baird.  u  Superstition,"  we  quote 
from  the  published  volume,  "  takes  a  strong  hold  of  the 
mind  in  circumstances  such  as  those  in  which  I  was  at  this 
time  placed.  One  day,  when  on  the  top  of  a  tall  building, 
part  of  which  we  were  throwing  down  to  supply  us  with 
materials  for  our  work,  I  raised  up  a  broad  slab  of  red 
micaceous  sandstone,  thin  as  a  roofing  slate,  and  exceed- 
ingly fragile,  and,  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length,  dropped 
it  over  the  wall.  I  had  been  worse  than  usual  all  that 
morning,  and  much  depressed;  and,  ere  the  .slab  parted 
from  my  hand,  I  said,  —  looking  forward  to  but  a  few 
months  of  life,  —  I  shall  break  up  like  that  sandstone  slab, 
and .  perish  as  little  known.  But  the  sandstone  slab  did 
not  break  up  ;  a  sudden  breeze  blew  it  aslant  as  it  fell ;  it 
cleared  the  rough  heap  of  stones  below,  where  I  had  antici- 
pated it  would  have  been  shivered  to  fragments,  and,  light- 
ing on  its  edge,  stuck  upright,  like  a  miniature  obelisk,  in 
the  soft,  green  sward  beyond.  None  of  the  philosophies  or 
the  logics  would  have  sanctioned  the  inference  which  I  im- 
mediately drew  ;  but  that  curious  chapter  in  the  history  of 

» 
human  belief  which  treats  of  signs  and  omens  abounds  in 

such  postulates  and  such  conclusions.  I  at  once  inferred 
that  recovery  awaited  me ;  I  was  '  to  live  and  riot  die,' 
and  felt  lighter,  during  the  few  weeks  I  afterwards  toile'd  at 
this  place,  under  the  cheering  influence  of  the  conviction." 
In  the  letter  to  Baird  there  is  no  mention  of  this  waking 
experiment,  but  he  records  the  following  dream :  "I 
dreamed  that  I  was  walking  alone,  in  an  evening  -of  singu- 
lar beauty,  over  a  low  piece  of  marshy  ground,  which  lies 
about  half  a  mile  to  the  north  of  the  place  where  I  wrought. 
On  a  bank  which  rises  above  the  marsh  there  is  a  small 
burying-ground  and  the  ruins  of  an  old  chapel.  I  dreamed 
that  I  arrived  at  the  burying-ground,  and  that  it  was  laid 
out  in  a  manner  the  most  exquisitely  elegant.  The  tombs 


A    DREAM.  97 

were  of  beautiful  and  varied  workmanship.  They  were  of 
a  style  either  chastely  Grecian  or  gorgeously  Gothic,  and 
en  wreathed  and  half  hid  by  the  flowers  and  foliage  of  beau- 
tiful shrubs  which  sprung  up  and  clustered  around  them. 
There  was  a  profusion  of  roses,  mingled  with  delicate  blue 
flowers  of  a  species  I  never  saw  except  in  this  dream.  The 
old  Gothic  chapel  seemed  roofed  with  stone,  and  appeared 
as  entire  as  the  day  it  had  been  completed ;  but,  from  the 
lichens  and  mosses  with  which  it  was  covered,  it  looked 
more  antique  than  almost  any  building  I  remember  to  have 
seen.  The  whole  scene  was  relieved  against  a  clear  sky, 
which  seemed  bright  and  mellow  as  if  the  sun  had  set  only 
a  minute  before.  Suddenly,  however,  it  became  dark  and 
lowering,  a  low  breeze  moaned  through  the  tombs  and 
bushes,  and  I  began  to  feel  the  influence  of  a  superstitious 
terror.  I  looked  towards  the  chapel,  and  on  its  western 
gable  I  saw  an  antique-looking,  singularly  formed  beam  of 
bronze,  which  seemed  to  unite  in  itself  the  shapes  of  the 
hoar-hand  of  a  clock  and  the  gnomon  of  a  dial.  As  I  gazed 
on  it,  it  turned  slowly  on  its  axis  until  it  pointed  at  a  spot 
on  the  sward  below.  It  then  remained  stationary  as  before. 
My  terror  increased,  the  images  of  my  dream  became  less 
distinct,  and  my  last  recollection  before  I  awoke  is  of  a  wild 
night-scene,  and  of  my  floundering  on  in  the  darkness 
through  the  marsh  below  the  bury  ing-ground.  A  few  weeks 
after  the  night  of  this  dream,  one  of  my  paternal  cousins, 
in  the  second  degree,  was  seized  by  a  fever  of  which  he 
died.  I  attended  his  funeral,  and  found  that  the  grave  had 
been  opened  to  receive  his  corpse  on  exactly  the  patch  of 
sward  to  which  the  beam  had  turned." 

This  dream  he  calls  "  a  prophecy  of  contingency,  — one 
of  those  few  dreams  which,  according  to  Bacon,  men  re- 
member and  believe  because  they  happen  to  hit,  not  one  of 
the  many  which  they  deem  idle  and  forget,  because  they 


98  THE   APPRENTICE. 

chance  to  miss."  To  us  it  is  interesting  as  showing,  espe- 
cially when  taken  in  connection  with  the  small  experiment 
in  necromancy  previously  related,  how  strongly,  even  at 
this  early  period,  Hugh  Miller's  mental  state  was  influenced 
by  his  physical  condition.  Brooding  on  early  death  by  day, 
wandering  among  tombs  in  night-visions,  his  brain  was 
rapidly  approaching  that  degree  of  agitation  at  which  will 
and  intellect  fall  under  the  dominion  of  maniac 

Both  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  and  in  the  let- 
ter to  Baird,  he  dwells  upon  the  wretched  and  dissolute  life 
of  the  two  or  three  (we  have  two  in  the  earlier  account  and 
three  in  the  later)  farm-servants  who  occupied  the  same 
bothy  with'  himself  and  his  master.  In  his  twenty-seventh 
year  Hugh  Miller  pronounced  emphatic  condemnation  on 
the  bothy  system ;  he  returned  to  the  subject  when  fifty, 
and  it  was  to  enforce  his  opinion  by  the  experience  of  his 
life.  "  There  were,"  he"  writes  to  Baird,  "  two  unmarried 
farm-servants  who  lodged  with  us  in  the  barrack.  They 
were  both  young  men,  and  the  life  they  were  almost  neces- 
sitated to  lead  was  one  of 'the  most  unfriendly  possible  to 
the  formation  of  moral  character.  All  clay  they  were  em- 
ployed in  the  monotonous  labors  of  the  farm.  Their  even- 
ings, as  they  had  no  home,  were  spent  either  in  neighboring 
houses,  where  young  people  similarly  situated  with  them- 
selves were  accustomed  to  meet,  or  in  a  small  village,  about 
a  mile  distant,  where  there  was  an  ale-house.  Their  ordi- 
nary pleasures  consisted  in  drinking,  and  amusements  of  a 
low  and  gross  character ;  their  principal  enjoyment  they 
derived  from  what  they  termed  a  ball,  and  scarce  a  fort- 
night passed  at  this  season  without  one  being  held  at  the 
village.  It  was  commonly  midnight  before  they  returned 
to  the  barrack.  The  effects  of  this  heartless  course  of  life 
were  apparent  in  their  dispositions  and  conduct.  They  were 
bound  by  no  ties  of  domestic  affection  ;  and,  though  they  were 


FARM-SERVANTS.  99 

never  apart,  they  seemed  to  have  no  other  idea  of  friendship 
than  that  it  was  a  matter  of  convenience  which  substituted 
the  pleasures  of  society  for  the  horrors  of  solitude.  To  a 
person  of  a  degraded,  selfish  cast  of  mind  it  is  misery  to 
be  alone  ;  and  hence  it  will  almost  invariably  be  found  that 
the  more  careless  a  common  man  becomes  of  his  fellows, 
the  less  can  he  live  without  them.  The  lads  were  besides 
extremely  ignorant ;  they  were  of  a  gay,  reckless  disposi- 
tion, and,  as  they  entertained  no  affection  for  their  em- 
ployer, and  had  their  moral  feelings  much  blunted,  the 
services  they  rendered  him  were  profitless  and  inefficient,  as 
those  services  generally  are  which  are  extorted  by  neces- 
sity, and  regulated  by  only  a  dread  of  censure.  I  could 
not  think  without  regret  that  they  were  yet  to  become  hus- 
bands and  the  fathers  of  families  ;  and  at  this  time  I  was 
first  led  to  perceive  that  the  large  farm  system  has  been  as 
productive,  at  least,  of  moral  evil  as  of  physical  good.  By 
the  discoveries  in  the  art  of  agriculture  to  which  it  has  led, 
the  soil  has  been  meliorated  and  rendered  more  produc- 
tive ;  but  what  have  been  its  effects  upon  men?  So  far  as 
it  has  extended,  it  has  substituted  two  classes  of  character 
which  may  be  regarded  as  o'pposite  extremes  equally  re- 
moved from  the  intermediate  line  of  excellence,  for  a  class 
which  occupied  the  proper  medium.  It  has  given  us,  for  a 
wise,  moral,  and  religious  peasantry,  gentlemen-farmers 
and  farm-servants,  —  the  latter,  in  too  many  instances,  a 
class  of  debased  helots  of  the  character  described ;  the 
former  a  body  of  men  too  often  marked  (though  certainly 
with  many  exceptions)  by  a  union  of  the  worst  traits  pecu- 
liar to  the  opposing  classes  of  country  gentlemen  and 
merchants,  —  the  supercilious,  overbearing  manners  of  the 
one  class  ;  the  unfeeling,  speculative  spirit  of  the  other." 

To  the  same  effect  is  the  latter  statement  of  his  views  on 
the  subject :    "  The  deteriorating  effect  of  the  large  farm 


100  THE   APPRENTICE. 

system,"  he  wrote,  "  is  inevitable.  .  .  .  Farm-servants,  as 
a  class,  must  be  lower  in  the  scale  than  the  old  tenant-far- 
mers, who  wrought  their  little  farms  with  their  own  hands  ; 
but  it  is  possible  to  elevate  them  far  above  the  degraded 
level  of  the  bothy ;  and  unless  means  be  taken  to  check  the 
spread  of  the  ruinous  process  of  brute-making  which  the  sys- 
tem involves,  the  Scottish  people  will  sink,  to  a  certainty, 
in  the  agricultural  districts,  from  being  one  of  the  most 
provident,  intelligent,  and  moral  in  Europe,  to  be  one  of 
the  most  licentious,  reckless,  and  ignorant." 

If  two  men  ever  lived  who  knew  the  Scottish  people,  and 
were  able  to  give  an  intelligent  opinion  concerning  them, 
these  two  men  were  Robert  Burns  and  Hugh  Miller ;  and 
their  joint  authority  in  favor  of  the  old  system  and  against 
the  new,  viewed  in  relation  to  the  capacity  of  each  to  pro- 
duce upright,  independent,  self-respecting  men,  will  hardly 
be  outweighed  by  the  consideration  that  large  farms,  worked 
by  men  in  bothies,  send  most  meat  to  the  London  market. 

It  may  be  hoped  that  such  bothies  as  that  in  which  Hugh 
Miller  lived  at  this  time  are  no  longer  to  be  found  in  Scot- 
land. The  roof  leaked  ;  the  sides  were  "riddled  with  gaps 
and  breaches ; "  along  the  ridge,  "  it  was  open  to  the  sky 
from  gable  to  gable,"  "  so  that,"  he  writes,  "  when  I  awak- 
ened in  the  night,  I  could  tell  what  o'clock  it  was,  without 
rising  out  of  bed,  by  the  stars  which  appeared  through  the 
opening."  Even  in  this  dismal  place,  however,  he  contrived 
to  supply  himself  with  the  consolations  of  literature.  From 
a  wandering  pedler  he  obtained  the  old  Scottish  poems  of 
Gawin  Douglas  and  William  Dunbar,  besides  a  collection 
of  "  Ancient  Scottish  Poems"  from  the  MS.  of  George  Ban- 
natyne.  These  books  he  "  perused  with  great  interest,  ly- 
ing on  the  barrack  floor,  with  the  page  spread  out  within  a 
few  inches  of  the  fire."  At  last,  even  this  resource  failed 
him.  The  fuel  used  for  warming  the  barrack  became  soaked 


IN   THE    BOTHY.  101 

with  rain,  and  could  not  produce  a  blaze  by  which  it  was 
possible  to  read.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  stick 
doggedly  to  work,  passing  as  many  hours  of  the  twenty-four 
in  sleep  as  was  practicable.  He  found  that,  by  a  little  ju- 
dicious management,  a  great  deal  of  sleep  could  be  got  into 
the  twenty-four  hours,  and  that  sleep  was  not  a  bad  make- 
shift in  the  absence*  of  livelier  entertainments.  "  I  re- 
stricted myself,"  he  writes  to  Baird,  "  to  two  meals  per 
da}^,  that  immediately  after  taking  dinner  I  might  go  to  bed  ; 
and  in  a  short  time  this  new  arrangement  became  such  a  mat- 
ter of  habit  that  I  commonly  fell  asleep  every  evening  about 
six  o'clock,  and  did  not  rise,  sometimes  not  even  awaken, 
until  near  eight  next  morning.  Since  this  time  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  decide  whether  I  am  happy,  or  the  contrary 
(a  query  of  difficulty  when  one  measures  one's  circumstances 
by  the  standards  of  either  hope  or  fear) ,  by  a  test  extremely 
simple.  I  deem  the  balance  to  incline  to  the  side  of  happi- 
ness when  I  prefer  consciousness  to  unconsciousness,  — 
when  I  consider  sleep  merely  a  thing  of  necessity,  instead 
of  regarding  it  as  a  refuge  from  the  tedium  of  waking  inanity, 
or  unpleasant  occupation.  The  converse  leads  me  to  a  con- 
trary conclusion."  In  the  letter  from  which  this  is  quoted 
he  pronounces  the  spring  and  summer  of  the  first  year  of 
his  apprenticeship  "  the  gloomiest  seasons  of  his  life ; "  in 
the  u  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  the  closing  period  is  de- 
clared to  have  been  "  by  far  the  gloomiest  he  ever  spent." 
At  both  periods  he  suffered  about  as  much  as  man  can  suffer ; 
but  in  the  intermediate  stages  there  were  glimpses,  nay, 
abiding  gleams,  of  enjoyment.  On  the  llth  of  November, 
1822,  his  apprenticeship  came  to  an  end. 

He  was  now  an  accomplished  workman,  and  perhaps  in 
all  his  books  there  is  no  passage  more  weighty  or  valuable 
than  that  in  which  he  gives  his  estimate  of  the  importance 
of  this  fact,  and  impresses  upon  artisans  the  supreme  neces- 


102  THE   APPRENTICE. 

sity  of  being  masters  of  their  trade.  "It  is  not  uninstruc- 
tive,"  he  writes,  "  to  observe  how  strangely  the  public  are 
led  at  times  to  attach  paramount  importance  to  what  is  in 
reality  only  subordinately  important,  and  to  pass  over  the 
really  paramount  without  thought  or  notice.  The  destiny 
in  life  of  the  skilled  mechanic  is  much  more  influenced,  for 
instance,  by  his  second  education  —  that  of  his  apprentice- 
ship —  than  by  his  first,  —  that  of  the  school ;  and  yet  it  is 
to  the  education  of  the  school  that  the  importance  is  gener- 
ally regarded  as  attaching,  and  we  never  hear  of  the  other. 
The  careless,  incompetent  scholar  has  many  opportuni- 
ties of  recovering  himself ;  the  careless,  incompetent  appren- 
tice, who  either  fails  to  serve  out  his  regular  time,  or  who, 
though  he  fulfils  his  term,  is  discharged  an  inferior  work- 
man, has  very  few  ;  and,  further,  nothing  can  be  more  cer- 
tain than  that  inferiority  as  a  workman  bears  much  more 
disastrously  on  the  condition  of  the  mechanic  than  inferi- 
ority as  a  scholar.  Unable  to  maintain  his  place  among 
brother  journeymen,  or  to  render  himself  worthy  of  the  aver- 
age wages  of  his  craft,  the  ill-taught  mechanic  falls  out  of 
regular  employment,  subsists  precariously  for  a  time  on  occa- 
sional jobs,  and  either,  forming  idle  habits,  becomes  a  vaga- 
bond tramper,  or,  getting  into  the  toils  of  some  rapacious 
taskmaster,  becomes  an  enslaved  sweater.  For  one  workman 
injured  by  neglect  of  his  school  education,  there  are  scores 
ruined  by  neglect  of  their  apprenticeship  education.  Three- 
fourths  of  the  distress  of  the  country's  mechanics  (of  course 
not  that  of  the  unhappy  class  who  have  to  compete  with 
machinery),  and  nine-tenths  of  their  vagabondism,  will  be 
found  restricted  to  inferior  workmen,  who,  like  Hogarth's 
"careless  apprentice/'  neglected  the  opportunities  of  their 
second  term  of  education.  The  sagacious  painter  had  a 
truer  insight  into  this  matter  than  most  of  pur  modern  edu- 
cationists." 


APPRENTICESHIP   EDUCATION.  '     103 

During  his  apprenticeship  the  character  of  Miller  began 
to  reveal  the  essential  traits  which  we  afterwards  find  in  it. 
"Gloomy"  many  of  its  seasons  were;  the  " gloomiest" 
of  his  life,  —  at  least  until  he  became  a  literary  celebrity 
and  editor  of  a  religious  newspaper ;  but  both  its  gloom 
and  its  gladness  went  to  the  making  and  maturing  of  his 
character.  The  aching  joint,  the  fevered  pulse,  the  breast 
oppressed  with  pain,  the  eye  swimming  in  bewildered 
trance  of  agony  and  exhaustion ;  the  meditative  midnight 
hour,  when  his  eye  marked  the  stars  as  they  crossed  the 
rent  in  the  roof ;  the  evening  wanderings  in  woodland  and 
by  stream  when  sunset  clothed  in  ruddy  light  the  old  tower 
on  the  crag,  —  these  constituted  the  true  education  of  Hugh 
Miller.  Henceforth  we  recognize  him  as  the  man  he  was, 
and  are  able  to  trace  in  his  countenance  those  lines  of  for- 
titude and  resolution  which  so  strongly  marked  that  of  his 
father.  He  had  won  the  first  decisive  victory  of  life,  ear- 
nest of  all  other  victories,  —  the  victory  of  reason  and  con- 
science over  momentary  inclination,  of  intelligent  will  over 
laggard  indolence  and  lawless  impulse.  He  had  disciplined 
the  wayward  activity  of  boyhood  into  manly  force.  He 
had  chastened  rude  strength  into  ordered  energy.  Blus- 
tering self-assertion,  juvenile  conceit,  had  given  place  to 
deliberate  self-respect ;  and  that  rebellious  disposition 
which  had  perplexed  his  uncles  and  been  the  despair  of  his 
mother  was  calmed  and  concentrated  into  modesty,  into 
self-command,  into  the  gentleness  of  conscious  power. 
The  flawed  and  briAle  iron  had  become  steel.  "  Noble, 
upright,  self-relying  Toil/'  he  exclaims,  with  grand  enthu- 
siasm, u  who  that  knows  thy  solid  worth  and  value  would 
be  ashamed  of  thy  hard  hands,  and  thy  soiled  vestments, 
and  thy  obscure  tasks,  —  thy  humble  cottage,  and  hard 
couch,  and  homely  fare  !•" 

Not,  however,  to  all  men  is  toil  an  education  and  hard- 


104  THE    APPRENTICE. 

ship  a  blessing.  Hugh  Miller  came  to  his  apprenticeship 
fortified  against  evil  and  prepared  for  good  by  that  train- 
ing in  courage  and  truthfulness,  in  just  thought  and  manly 
feeling,  which  he  had  unconsciously  received  in  companion- 
ship with  his  uncles.  Those  gentlemen  of  nature's  finest 
modelling  were,  though  he  knew  it  not,  the  examples  by 
which  he  shaped  himself.  He  acted  on  all  occasions  as  he 
felt  that  Uncle  James  or  Uncle  Sandy  would  have  acted  in 
the  circumstances.  Nor  can  we  err  in  affirming  that  the 
incidents  and  results  of  Miller's  apprenticeship  prove  that 
there  was  a  remarkable  soundness  in  his  original  constitu- 
tion, a  fund  of  natural  health,  moral  and  intellectual,  of 
genial  humor  and  of  homely  wisdom.  How  bravely  he 
makes  the  most  of  adverse  circumstances  !  How  cheerfully 
he  accommodates  himself  to  his  situation  !  How  kindly  are 
the  relations  he  establishes  between  himself  and  his  coarse 
and  riotous  associates  !  There  is  nothing  which  he  cannot 
assimilate  and  apply  to  his  mental  nutriment,  and  he  is 
animated  by  a  quiet,  half-conscious,  but  steadfast  ambition 
for  self-culture.  He  has  a  deep-lying  conviction  of  his 
ability  to  rise  above  the  sphere  in  which  he  finds  himself 
placed ;  but  he  has  already  got  firm  hold  of  a  very  ancient 
philosophy  of  life,  a  philosophy  which  has  been  of  use  to 
wise  men  in  every  age  ;  and  it  has  made  him  comparatively 
indifferent  to  what  is  called  success.  According  to  this 
philosophy,  happiness  is  too  subtle  an  essence  to  be  pur- 
chased with  gold,  or  to  be  dealt  out  wholesale  to  one  class 
of  men  as  distinguished  from  another  f  the  rude  fare  of  the 
peasant  is  as  sweet  to  him  as  his  dainties  to  the  peer ;  the 
honest  pride  which  warms  the  heart  of  the  capable  artisan 
is  as  instinct  with  joy  as  the  aristocrat's  pride  of  rank  or 
birth ;  nature's  face  has  a  smile  for  all  who  will  lovingly 
look  into  it ;  and  rising  in  the  wofld  may  mean  falling  in 
all  that  makes  life  precious,  character  illustrious,  man  happy. 


BOOK    III. 


THE    JOURNEYMAN. 


1  Here  also  is  a  man  who  can  handle  both  pen  and  hammer  like  a  man." 


CHAPTER  I. 

FAVORABLE    OPINIONS    FROM     OLD     DAVID     WRIGHT   AND    UNCLE 

JAMES  FIRST     WORK     AS     JOURNEYMAN  AUNT      JENNY'S 

COTTAGE  SENDS     POETICAL     PIECES     TO     ROSS  SELF-DE- 
LINEATION. 

returning  to  Cromarty,  Miller  soon  regains  his 
health,  and  things  wear  for  him  on  the  whole  a 
pleasant  aspect.  Old  f  David  Wright,  who  had 
occasionally  been  morose  to  his  apprentice  (his 
own  distresses  imperatively  demanding  that  relief),  now 
declares  that,  though  unsecured  to  him  by  any  written 
agreement,  Hugh  had  been,  "beyond  comparison,  more 
tractable  and  obedient  than  any  indentured  pupil  he  ever 
had."  Uncle  James,  whose  predictions  of  failure  at  work, 
as  a  natural  sequel  to  failure  at  school,  had  contributed  not 
a  little  to  the  support  of  Miller  at  the  worst  time,  —  for  it 
would  be  exquisitely  gratifying  to  punish  and  to  please 
Uncle  James  by  one  and  the  same  course  of  action,  —  does 
ample  justice  to  the  faithfulness,  with  which,  from  a  mere 
sense  of  honor,  he  has  completed  his  engagement,  and  owns 
that  there  is  in  him,  after  all,  the  making  of  a  man. 

His  first  employment  as  a  journeyman  is  characteristic. 
To  seek  remunerative  employment  —  to  start  in  life  for 
himself — would  be  his  natural  impulse.  But  the  better 
and  homelier  part  of  his  nature  has  now  ripened,  and  kind- 
ness of  heart,  one  of  his  deepest  qualities,  proves  stronger 
than  the  prompting  of  ambition.  "Aunt  Jenny,"  a  sister 

107 


108  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

of  his  mother,  who  had  long  wished  to  have  some  dwelling 
which  she  could  call  her  own,  and  in  which  her  spinning- 
wheel  and  knitting-needles  might  supply  her  modest  wants, 
had  never  surmounted  the  alarm  occasioned  by  the  prospect 
of  paying  rent.  Hugh  inherited  a  little  piece  of  garden 
ground  from  his  father.  Part  of  this  he  now  devotes  to  the 
purpose  of  building  a  cottage  for  Aunt  Jenny.  Money  he 
has  none,  but  the  few  pounds  which  his  aunt  has  saved  are 
enough  to  buy  wood  for  the  roof  and  to  pay  for  carting  the 
necessary  stones  and  mortar,  and  he  builds  the  cottage. 
The  worthy  aunt  is  saved  from  fear  of  rent  for  the  remain- 
der of  her  days,  and  Hugh  has  his  reward.  The  cottage  is 
still  to  be  seen  in  the  village  of  Cromarty,  bearing  witness, 
while  stone  and  lime  endure,  to  the  competence  of  Hugh 
Miller  as  a  stone-mason,  and  to  the  simplicity,  solidity,  and 
kindliness  of  his  character.  It  is  in  little  circumstances 
like  this  that  one  learns  infallibly  what  is  in  a  man.  When 
the  scenes  are  arranged,  the  audience  assembled,  the  atti- 
tude given,  it  is  easy  to  act  the  generous  part ;  but  the 
quiet  heart-heroism,  unseen  by  the  world,  unsurmised  «ven 
by  itself,  which  makes  Hugh  Miller  pause,  on  the  threshold 
of  life,  to  build  a  cottage  for  Aunt  Jenny,  cannot  deceive  us. 

This  undertaking  is  completed  in  the  spring  of  1823,  and 
the  day  has  now  come  when  employment  must  be  sought  in 
earnest.  Some  little  time  elapses  —  two  or  three  weeks  at 
most  —  during  which  he  looks  in  vain.  "  I  was  a  good  deal 
depressed,"  he  writes  to  Baird.  "  I  was  somewhat  diffident 
of  my  skill  as  a  workman ;  and  I  felt  too,  very  strongly, 
the  force  of  that  sentiment  of  Burns  to  which  we  are 
indebted  for  his  excellent  elegiac  poem,  '  Man  is  made  to 
mourn.'  6  There  is  nothing,'  said  the  poet,  c  that  gives  me 
a  more  mortifying  picture  of  human  life  than  a  man  seeking 
work.' " 

During  the  brief  interval  between  the  building  of  Aunt 


WRITES   TO    ROSS.  109 

Jenny's  cottage  and  his  first  engagement  as  a  journeyman, 
he  writes  to  William  Ross,  now  in  Edinburgh,  and  copies 
out  for  him  a  selection  of  his  poems.  The  letter  is  not 
without  interest  from  the  enthusiasm  of  its  affection  for  the 
friend  to  whom  it  is  addressed. 

"  I  have  long  since  promised  you  copies  of  all  my  little 
poetical  pieces  which  you  were  so  good-natured  as  to 
approve  of,  and  I  now  send  you  them.  I  am  too  vain  to 
forget  how  much  you  used  to  praise  them ;  but  was  it  not 
as  the  productions  of  a  half-taught  boy  that  you  did  so? 
and  if  you  loved  them,  was  it  not  merely  because  they  were 
written  by  your  friend?  I  now  see  that  many  of  them  are 
extremely  juvenile,  and  this  could  not  have  escaped  you; 
but  I  dare  say  you  did  best  in  not  telling  me  so.  I  would 
have  been  disheartened,  and  have,  perhaps,  stood  still. 
And  yet  even  now  when  I  see  many  of  their  faults,  like  a 
true  parent  I  love  them  notwithstanding ;  but  it  is  more  for 
the  sake  of  the  association  connected  with  them  than  for 
their  own  sakes.  Some  of  them  were  composed  among  the 
rocks  of  my  favorite  hill  when  I  played  truant ;  some  of 
them  in  Marcus  cave,  when  the  boys  who  had  chosen  me  for 
their  leader  were  engaged,  in  picking  shell-fish  from  the 
skerries  for  our  dinner  ;  some  of  them  in  the  workshed,  some 
in  the  barrack.  And  thus,  like  the  purse  of  Fortunatus, 
which  was  made  of  leather  but  produced  gold,  though  not 
rich  in  themselves  they  are  full  of  riches  to  me.  They  are 
redolent  of  the  past  and  of  you  ;  remember  how  I  used  to 
run  to  your  closet  with  every  piece  the  moment  I  had  fin- 
ished it,  that  you  might  say  something  in  its  favor.  You 
were  the  whole  public  for  whom  I  wrote.  You  will  not 
deem  me  paradoxical  when  I  say  that  the  pieces  I  send  you 
are  full  of  scenery  and  character,  though  poor  in  descrip- 
tion and  manner,  and  rich  in  thought  and  sentiment,  thoTigh 
meagre,  perhaps,  and  commonplace.  Your  affection  for  me 


110  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

will,  I  dare  say,  make  them  poetry  to  you  too.  Do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  write  what  will  be  deemed  poetry  by 
anybody  else?  I  deem  my  intimacy  with  you  the  most 
important  affair  of  my  life.  I  have  enjoyed  more  from  it 
than  from  anything  else,  and  have  been  more  improved  by 
it  than  by  all  my  books.  Since  you  left  me  I  have  not 
advanced  an  inch ;  have  you  no  means  of  impelling  me 
onward  when  at  a  distance?  or  is  it  necessary,  as  in 
Physics,  that  before  communicating  motion  to  me,  we  must 
come  in  contact  ?  " 

The  poems  are  fluent  and  vivacious,  but  display  little 
original  power  or  depth  of  melody.  The  following  lines, 
probably  written  among  the  woods  of  Conon  during  his 
apprenticeship,  are  not  without  a  certain  pensive  sweetness 
and  sincerity. 

THE  DAYS  THAT  AEE  GONE. 

"  On  the  friends  of  my  youth  and  the  days  that  are  gone, 
In  the  depth  of  the  wild  wood  I  ponder  alone, 
And  my  heart  by  a  sad  gloomy  spirit  is  moved 
When  I  view  the  fair  scenes  that  in  childhood  I  loved. 
Harsh  roars  the  rough  ocean,  o'ercast  is  the  sky, 
The  voice  of  the  wind  passeth  mournfully  by ; 
Eor  winter  reigns  wide ;  —  *  sure  'tis  winter  with  me,' 
But  a  spring  to  my  winter  I  never  shall  see ; 
For  aught  of  earth's  joys  'tis  unmanly  to  moan, 
Yet  bursts  the  sad  sigh  for  the  days  that  are  gone. 
The  fair  flowers  of  summer  have  vanished  away, 
The  green  shrub  is  witheredf  and  leafless  the  spray ; 
Yet  memory,  half- sad  and  half- sportive,  still  shows 
How  bloomed  the  blue  violet,  how  blossomed  the  rose. 
Say,  shall  not  that  memory  as  fondly  retain 
Hold  of  joys  I  have  proved  as  of  charms  I  have  seen? 
Yes  —  Nature's  fair  scenes  are  more  dear  to  this  heart 
Than  the  trophies  of  love  or  the  pageants  of  art, 


POEMS.  Ill 

Yet  more  to  this  bosom  those  friends  are  endeared, 
By  whom  in  life's  dawn  the  gay  moments  were  cheered ; 
More  cherished,  though  darker  "their  memory  shall  be, 
Than  that  of  the  rose  or  the  violet  by  me. 

Ye  rocks,  whose  rough  summits  seem  lost  in  the  clouds, 
Ye  fountains,  ye  caves,  and  ye  dark  waving  woods, 
In  the  still  voice  of  memory  ye  bid  me  to  mourn 
For  the  joys  and  the  years  that  must  never  return, 
The  years  ere  the  gay  hopes  of  youth  were  laid  low, 
Or  hope  half-despondent  had  wept  o'er  the  blow, 
The  joys,  ere  my  knowledge  of  mankind  began 
By  proving  the  toils  and  the  sorrows  of  man. 

Yet  why  should  I  sorrow?  —  poor  child  of  decay, 
Myself,  like  my  pleasures,  must  vanish  away, 
And  life  in  the  view  of  my  spirit  may  seem 
The  tossing  confused  of  a  feverish  dream. 
Yes,  life  is  a  dream,  a  wild  dream,  where  the  will 
Striveth  vainly  the  precepts  of  right  to  fulfil ; 
A  dream  where  the  dreamer  to  sorrow  is  tied ; 
A  dream  where  proud  reason  but  weakly  can  guide ; 
It  controls  not  my  spirit,  despite  of  my  will, 
The  joys  of  the  by-past  are  haunting  me  still. 

And  oft  when  all  bright  on  my  night  slumbers  break 
The  spirits  of  pleasures  I  prize  when  awake, 
When  I  seize  them  with  gladness  and  revel  in  joy, 
Comes  the  beam  of  the  morning  my  bliss  to  destroy ; 
Away  on  the  light  wings  of  slumber  they  fly, 
While  their  memory  remains,  and  I  languish  and  sigh. 
0  days  of  bright  pleasure  !  O  days  of  delight ! 
From  me  ye  forever  have  winged  your  flight. 
But  the  calm,  pensive  Muse  still  remains  to  beguile 
The  day  of  dark  thought,  of  affliction  and  toil ; 
By  the  gloom  of  the  present  the  past  to  endear, 
By  the  joys  of  the  by-past  the  present  to  cheer." 

In  a  poetical  epistle  to  a  friend,  whom  I  take  to  be  Eoss 
himself,  we  have  a  significant  glimpse  of  Miller's  feelings  ' 
with  respect  to  the  lawlessness  of  his  school-days : 


112  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

"  Oh !  well  to  thee  are  all  those  foibles  known, 
Which  to  a  stranger  I  would  blush  to  own  : 
For  well  you  knew  me  when  in  youth  I  strayed ; 

When  of  untutored  genius  weakly  vain, 
I  spurned  instruction  with  a  vile  disdain ; 
Yet  dared  to  expect,  unskilled  in  classic  lore, 
To  song's  proud  heights  the  untutored  Muse  would  soar. 
Vain  hope  !     These  rude,  unpolished  lines  must  show 
.       How  weak  my  thoughts,  how  harsh  my  numbers  flow." 

It  is  a  deeply  characteristic  trait  that  Hugh  Miller 
should,  as  a  school-boy,  have  been  so  conscious  of  his 
genius  as  to  feel  himself  empowered  to  spurn  instruction, 
and  that,  as  an  apprentice,  a  year  or  two  after  leaving 
school,  he  should  have  already  convinced  himself  of  the 
feeble  vanity  of  the  idea. 

Occasionally  there  is  a  vividness  of  conception  in  these 
pieces,  which  presents  the  individual  figure  or  picture  in 
outline  so  distinct,  and  colors  so  brilliant,  that  it  flashes  in 
clear  visibility  upon  the  eye^of  the  mind.  The  raven  in  the 
following  sketch  is  as  palpably  bodied  forth  as  Tennyson's 
wild  hawk  staring  with  his  foot  on  the  prey :  — 

"  Foulest  of  the  birds  of  heaven, 
O'er  thee  flaps  the  hungry  raven ; 
Hark !  his  loud  and  piercing  cry, 
Pilgrim,  hark !  that  faint  reply ; 
Soon,  on  yonder  rocky  shore, 
Shall  he  bathe  his  wing  in  gore, 
Bathe  each  wing,  while  dives  his  beak 
In  a  cold,  wave-beaten  cheek ; 
Cold,  —  the  fierce  tides  o'er  it  flowing ; 
Cold,  though  now  with  life  'tis  glowing." 

A  copy  of  verses,  "  written  at  the  close  of  the  year,"  is 
dated  for  us  in  two  lines  which  occur  in  its  most  mournful 
passage :  — 


POEMS.  113 

"  Shall  ill  indeed  no  more  annoy? 

Is  life  in  truth  a  flowery  plain  ?  — 
Ah,  wherefore  look  for  coming  joy 

When  all  the  past  is  black  with  pain  ? 
That  strong-winged  Spoiler  oft  I've  seen 

Around  that  checkered  circlet  flee ; 
(For,  lo  !  this  weary  world  has  been 

These  eighteen  years  a  home  to  me.) 
Yes,  I  have  seen  him  pass  away 
Slow  o'er  misfortune's  gloomy  day, 
Stern  joy  seemed  his  when  sorrow  laid 
Her  cold  hand  on  the  sufferer's  head ; 
But  ah !  when  aught  resembling  peace 
For  one  short  hour  bade  mourning  cease, 
Like  light's  fleet  ray  he  sped  him  on, 
And  soon  the  tearless  hour  was  gone. 

Still  shall  he  fly,  and  joy  and  pain 
Shall  mark  this  checkered  life  again, 
Till  sorrow's  soothing  plaint  be  made 
All  lonely  o'er  the  nameless  dead ; 
And  all  that  Fate  or  Fortune  gave, 
Be  summed  up  o'er  my  tombless  grave." 

Not  altogether  tombless  !  The  melancholy  vein  soon  gives 
place  to  one  of  sprightlier  flow,  and  perhaps  more  genuine 
feeling.  Here  is  a  rhymed  contribution  to  that  sad  yet 
smiling  philosophy  of  life  to  which  allusion  was  lately 

made :  — 

"  Let  calm  content,  let  placid  rest, 

For  the  wild  joys  of  fame  suffice ; 
Nor  grandeur,  clothed  in  gorgeous  vest, 

And  tempting  form,  allure  mine  eyes ; 
But  let  the  lowly  Muse  descend, 

"With  fancied  bliss  to  glad  my  view, 
And  I  shall  hail  her  as  a  friend, 

And  deem  her  dear  delusions  true, 
For  life's  a  long,  dark,  feverish  dream, 

And  he  does  best  who  dreams  it  well ; 
Whose  paths  with  fancied  pleasures  beam, 

Whose  griefs  no  sign  of  woe  can  tell. 


114  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 


'Tis  madness  to  anticipate 

The  dark-browed,  angry  storms  of  fate, 

Life  of  itself  is  hard  to  bear ; 

But  wherefore  drop  the  doubtful  tear  ? 

When  gentle  zephyrs  fan  the  trees, 

And  daisies  bloom  and  roses  blow ; 

Why  sad  because  the  wintry  breeze 

Shall  bring  the  bitter  frost  and  snow  ?  " 

We  may  here  take  in  the  following  somewhat  high-flown 
account  of  himself,  which  served  as  preface  to  a  second 
copy  of  his  juvenile  poems,  with  which  he  seems  to  have 
favored  Ross :  — 

"CROMARTY,  March  15,  1823. 

"DEAR  WILLIE  :  — 1823  would  have  sounded  oddly  seven 
years  ago,  about  which  tune  we  first  got  acquainted ;  yet, 
by  the  natural  course  of  things,  it  has  become  the  present 
time,  and  the  by-past  years  live  only  in  the  memory  of  the 
evil  or  good  committed  in  them.  In  1815  I  was  a  thought- 
less, careless  school-boy,  who  proved  his  spirit  by  playing 
truant  three  weeks  in  the  four,  and  his  genius  by  writing 
rhymes  which  pleased  nobody  but  himself.  In  1823,  that 
same  school-boy  finds  himself  a  journeyman  mason,  not 
quite  so  free  from  care,  but  as  much  addicted  to  rhyming  as 
ever.  But  is  this  all  ?  Can  he  boast  of  no  good  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  experience  of  a  space  of  time  which  brings 
him  from  his  thirteenth  to  his  twentieth  year?  Has  that 
time  passed  away  in  a  manner  useless  to  himself  and  unin- 
teresting to  others?  Not  entirely  so  ;  for,  in  that  time,  he 
got  acquainted  with  William  Ross  ;  in  that  time  he  changed 
the  thoughtless  hilarity  of  nature  for  the  placid,  tideless 
composure  of  sentiment ;  and  in  that  time  the  gay  hopes  of 
fortune  and  of  fame  which  engaged  him  even  in  the  simplest 
days  of  his  childhood  have  changed  into  a  less  noble, 


SELF-ESTIMATE.  115 

though  not  a  less  pleasing  form.  His  happiness  no  longer 
depends  upon  the  hope  of  the  applause  of  others;  not 
even  upon  the  approbation  of  his  friends ;  he  acts  and  he 
writes  for  himself.  His  own  judgment  is  his  critic,  —  his 
own  soul  is  the  world  to  which  he  addresses  himself ;  but 
do  not  imagine  that  his  own  tongue  sounds  his  own  praise, 
which  I  am  afraid,  if  I  went  on  any  longer  in  this  strain, 
you  might  justly  say." 


tc 


CHAPTER    II. 

GAIRLOCH LETTERS     DESCRIPTIVE     OF     HIS     JOURNEY    FROM 

CONON-SIDE    AND     OF     GAIRLOCH     SCENERY LOVE-POETRY 

THE     CARTER OLD    JOHN    ERASER A    DREAM MAG- 
NANIMOUS   REVENGE GAIRLOCH    LANDSCAPES  —  BACK   TO 

CROMARTY. 

BOUT  midsummer  work  turns  up,  and  Hugh  starts 
again  for  Conon-side,  whence  he  is  ordered  to 
Gairloch,  on  the  western  coast  of  Ross-shire.  A 
month  after  his  arrival  he  is  confined  to  his  bar- 
rack with  a  crushed  foot,  and  takes  his  pen  to  write  to  a 
friend  in  Cromarty.  There  is  one  letter  complete,  and  part 
of  another.  Readers  will,  perhaps,  like  to  have  these  com- 
positions as  they  came  from  the  pen  of  Miller  in  his 
twenty-first  year :  — 

"  GAIRLOCH,  July,   1823. 

"  You  may  expect  a  very  long  letter.  I  was  so  unlucky, 
two  days  ago,  as  to  get  my  left  foot  crushed  in  a  quarry  by 
a  huge  stone,  and  I  am  now  completely  chained  to  my  seat. 
My  comrades  are  all  out  at  work ;  I  have  no  books,  and 
the  hours  pass  away  heavily  enough ;  but  I  have  just  set 
myself  to  try  whether  I  cannot  beguile  them  by  conversing 
with  you.  You  are  sitting  before  me  on  a  large,  smooth 
stone,  the  only  spare  seat  in  the  barrack  (my  own  — for  I 
love  to  sit  soft  —  I  have  cushioned  with  a  sod),  and  I 
have  to  tell  you  a  long,  gossiping  story  —  which,  after  all, 
is  no  story  —  of  my  journey  thither,  and  of  what  I  have 

116 


LANDSCAPES.  117 

been  seeing  and  doing  since  I  came.  Draw  your  seat  a 
little  nearer  me,  that  I  may  begin. 

"  I  came  here  about  a  month  ago,  after  a  delightful  jour- 
ney of  two  days  from  Conon-side,  from  whence  I  have  been 
dispatched  by  my  employer,  with  another  mason  lad,  and  a 
comical  fellow,  a  carter,  to  procure  materials  for  the  build- 
ing. Though  the  youngest  of  the  party,  I  am  intrusted 
with  the  charge  of  the  others,  in  consideration  of  my  great 
gravity  and  wonderful  command  of  the  pen  ;  but,  as  far  as 
the  carter  is  concerned,  the  charge  is  a  truly  woful  one. 
He  bullies,  and  swears,  and  steals-,  and  tells  lies,  and  cares 
for  nobody.  I  am  stronger,  however,  and  more  active  than 
he,  and  must  give  him  a  beating  when  I  have  recovered  my 
lameness,  to  make  my  commission  good.  My  comrade,  the 
mason,  and  I  have  been  living  in  a  state  of  warfare  with 
him  ever  since  we  came  here.  On  the  morning  we  set  out 
from  Conon-side  he  left  us  to  drive  his  cart  and  went  to 
Dingwall,  where  he  loitered  and  got  drunk ;  we,  in  turn, 
after  waiting  for  him  for  two  long  hours  at  the  village  of 
Con  tin,  drove  away,  leaving  him  to  follow  us  on  foot  as  he 
best  might,  —  for  at  least  thirty  miles  ;  and  he  has  not  yet 
forgiven  us  the  trick. 

"  You  have  never  seen  Contin,  and  so  I  must  show  it 
you.  It  is  a  beautiful  Highland  village,  pleasantly  situated 
on  the  sweep  of  a  gentle  declivity,  which  terminates  behind 
the  houses,  on  the  banks  of  a  river,  and  is  covered  a-top  by 
the  mansion-house  and  pleasure-grounds  of  Sir  George 
McKenzie,  of  Coul,  a  gentleman  not  quite  unknown  in  the 
literary  world.  Towards  the  north  the  gigantic  Ben  Wyvis 
lifts  up  his  huge,  burly  head,  like  leviathan  among  the 
lesser  inhabitants  of  the  deep.  There  is  a  much  smaller, 
but  more  beautiful,  hill  on  the  north-west,  which  rises  out 
of  the  middle  of  a  low  valley,  and  is  washed  on  two  of  its 
sides  by  the  rivers  Conon  and  Contin.  It  is  of  a  pyramid- 


118  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ical  shape,  and  so  regularly  formed  that  one  might  almost 
deem  it  a  work  of  art,  and  regard  it  not  as  a  little  hill,  but 
as  an  immense  pyramid.  Farther  away,  and  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  valley,  there  is  a  range  of  steep,  precip- 
itous mountains,  barred  with  rock  and  speckled  with  birch, 
and  varying  in  color,  according  to  their  distance,  from 
brown  to  purple,  and  from  purple  to  light-blue.  In  a  cor- 
ner of  the  landscape,  and  at  the  base  of  one  of  these  hills, 
though  considerably  elevated  above  the  river,  we  see  the 
old  time-shattered  tower  of  Fairburn,  —  tall,  gray,  ghastly, 
and  like  a  giant  eremite  musing  in  solitude.  It  is  five 
stories  in  height,  with  only  a  single  room  on  each  floor, 
turreted  at  every  angle,  and  irregularly  perforated  by 
narrow  oblong  windows  and  shot-holes.  For  the  first  cen- 
tury after  its  erection  it  is  said  to  have  been  unfurnished 
with  a  door,  and  to  have  been  climbed  into  by  means  of  a 
ladder ;  but  when  the  times  became  quieter,  and  the  pro- 
prietors more  honest,  they  struck  out  for  themselves  the 
present  entrance,  a  door  scarcely  five  feet  in  height.  The 
earlier  McKenzies  of  Fairburn  (a  family  now  extinct) 
are  famed  in  tradition  as  daring  freebooters,  and  men 
of  immense  personal  strength.  I  have  heard  my  uncle 
say  that  the  two  strongest  men  in  the  allied  army  of 
Marlborough  and  Eugene  were  Munro,  of  Newmore,  and 
McKenzie,  of  Fairburn.  The  one  could  raise  a  piece  of 
ordnance  to  his  breast,  and  the  other  to  his  knee,  which  no 
third  man  of  eighty  thousand  could  lift  from  the  ground. 
But  I  forget  my  picture.  See,  there  are  the  hills,  —  steep, 
abrupt,  jagged  at  their  summit,  and  here  and  there  streaked 
with  snow.  Two  beautiful  Highland  streams  wind  through 
the  plain  below,  which  is  partially  covered  with  woods  of 
birch  and  hazel,  and  dotted  with  little  black  cottages,  while 
a  line  of  large  beeches  and  a  snug  little  village  occupy  the 
foreground. 


LANDSCAPES.  119 

"  A  little  beyond  Contin,  the  road  enters  a  birch  wood, 
and  forms  the  only  object  in  view  which  reminds  one  of 
man.  It  is  but  a  few  years  since  it  has  been  made  ;  I  even 
saw  in  a  little  recess  in  the  wood  the  ruins  of  two  of  the 
un wheeled  carts^  (sledges  rather)  which  were  in  use  among 
the  Highlanders  here  prior  to  its  formation.  We  were  met 
at  the  place  by  a  company  of  men  from  Lochbroom,  with 
their  gray  plaids,  as  the  day  was  extremely  warm,  rolled  up 
in  a  knapsack  form  on  their  shoulders,  —  three  of  the  party 
had  folded  up  their  breeches  in  the  same  bundle.  They 
were  all  travelling  towards  Ferintosh  to  the  sacrament.  A 
little  farther  on  the  appearance  of  the  country  is  extremely 
pleasant.  On  our  right  there  rose  a  ridge  of  abrupt  rocky 
hills,  from  the  hanging  cliffs  of  which  the  hazel  and  moun- 
tain ash  shot  out  their  gnarled  and  twisted  trunks  almost 
horizontally  over  the  road  ;  on  our  left,  a  small  but  beauti- 
ful loch  filled  the  bottom  of  the  glen.  After  driving  a  few 
miles  further  we  were  presented  with  quite  a  different 
scene,  —  a  bleak,  extended  moor,  through  which  a  few  slug- 
gish streams  rather  oozed  than  flowed,  with  here  and  there 
a  dwarf  oak  or  birch,  —  the  upper  branches  decayed  and 
bleached  white  with  the  storms  of  winter.  We  saw  at  one 
place  some  very  large  and  very  old  oak  trees,  —  one  of 
them  standing,  the  others  fallen.  The  one  which  stands  is 
about  six  feet  in  diameter,  and  is  so  entirely  divested  of 
its  upper  branches  that  it  resembles  a  green  spire,  and  so 
hollow  at  bottom  that  it  reminded  me  of  a  large  tar-barrel. 
A  still  bulkier  tree  lies  doddered  and  leafless  beside  it,  and 
not  many  yards  away  there  is  an  immense  heap  of  sawn 
timber,  originally  of  an  inferior  quality,  rotting  on  the 
ground,  —  the  property  of  some  unfortunate  speculatist.  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  I  might  have  met  with  many  things 
less  characteristic  of  the  past  and  present  ages  than  the  oak 
and  the  sawn  wood.  The  one  spoke  of  an  age  of  barba- 


120  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

rism,  in  which  whole  forests  were  either  suffered  to  moulder 
in  the  soil  which  had  produced  them  or  removed  by  fire  as 
positive  incumbrances  ;  the  other,  of  the  days  of  projectors 
and  bankruptcy. 

"  The  sun  disappeared  behind  one  of  {he  hills  on  our 
right  when  we  were  yet  several  miles  from  our  stage,  and 
the  evening  gave  promise  of  a  storm.  The  clouds  thick- 
ened as  the  night  advanced,  and  there  came  on  a  chill, 
drizzling  rain.  I  had  untied  the  bundle  in  which  we  had 
packed  up  our  bed-clothes,  and  with  a  thick  coverlet,  which 
I  raised  on  four  pike  handles,  I  was  forming  a  tilt  over  the 
cart,  when  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought  us  full  in  view 
of  the  solitary  inn  of  Achnicion,  and  ere  I  had  replaced  the 
coverlet  we  had  driven  up  to  it.  We  found  in  it  a  cheer- 
ful fire  and  an  obliging  landlord,  —  excellent  things  in  them- 
selves, and  particularly  so  in  the  midst  of  a  desert ;  and  it 
did  not  detract  from  our  pleasure  to  hear  the  rain  pattering 
on  the  windows  and  the  blast  howling  wildly  over  the  roof. 
From  the  door  of  the  inn  I  saw  a  dreary  prospect  of  a  bar- 
ren and  mountainous  country  stretching  away  for  several 
miles,  and  clothed  in  the  black-gray  tints  of  a  stormy  sum- 
mer evening.  The  hills  were  covered  with  wreaths  of  mist, 
which,  ever  and  anon  rolling  into  the  valleys,  brought  with 
them  a  fresh  deluge.  And  the  sounds  which  predominated 
were  well-nigh  as  dreary  as  the  scene.  There  was  the  sul- 
len roar  of  a  distant  river,  the  louder  and  more  rattling 
dash  of  a  large  stream  which  rushes  over  a  rocky  declivity 
beside  the  western  gable  of  the  inn,  the  howl  of  the  wind, 
the  pattering  of  the  rain,  and,  heard  at  intervals,  the  dis- 
tant bark  of  a  sheep-dog.  The  landlord  of  Achnicion  is  a 
kind,  active  old  man  of  about  seventy,  his  wife  an  indolent 
slattern  of  nineteen.  The  match  was  a  love  one,  on  at 
least  one  side,  —  will  you  believe  it?  —  on  the  side  of  the 


JOURNEY   TO    GAIULOCH.  121 

lady,  who  would  have  broken  her  heart,  it  is  said,  had  not 
the  old  man  married  her. 

"  We  were  awakened  next  morning  by  the  carter  storm- 
ing, in  an  adjoining  room,  at  both  us  and  the  landlord, 
who  strove  to  defend  us  ;  and  so  terrible  was  the  noise  he 
made  that  every  person  in  the  inn  gathered  round  the  door 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  He  actually  hoivled  out  the 
story  of  his  wrongs  and  of  his  sufferings.  He  had  been 
galled  during  his  journey  with  a  pair  of  bad  shoes  and  a 
large  bundle,  and  knocked  up  about  seven  miles  short  of 
the  stage,  where  he  had  to  beg  lodgings  for  the  night, 
having  drunk  all  his  money  before  leaving  Dingwall. 
Furious  as  he  was,  however,  we  succeeded  in  pacifying  him, 
partty  by  dint  of  threats,  partly  through  the  mediation  of 
a  few  gills  of  whiskey ;  and  then  set  out  with  him  on  our 
journey.  The  morning  somewhat  resembled  the  preced- 
ing night.  Large  volumes  of  mist  seemed  sleeping  on  the 
distant  hills,  and  the  long,  low  moors  that  lie  around  Ach- 
nicion  appeared  more  dismally  bleak  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  thick,  heavy  clouds  which  brooded  over  them. 

"  The  weather  cleared  up  as  we  proceeded.  We  had 
quitted  the  highway  immediately  on  leaving  the  inn,  and 
our  path,  which  seemed  to  have  been  formed  rather  by  the 
feet  of  animals  than  the  hands  of  men,  went  winding  for 
about  seven  miles  through  a  brown,  moory  valley,  whose 
tedious  length  was  enlivened  by  a  blue,  oblong  lake, — 
beautiful  in  itself,  but  reflecting,  like  the  mirror  of  a  homely 
female,  the  tame  and  unlovely  features  that  hung  over  it. 
At  its  upper  end  we  found  the  ruins  of  a  solitary  cottage, 
the  only  vestige  of  man  in  the  valley.  We  then  began  to 
descend  into  a  deep,  narrow  glen  or  ravine,  through  which 
there  runs  a  little  prattling  streamlet,  the  first  we  saw  fall- 
ing towards  the  Atlantic.  The  hills  rise  to  a  great  height 
on  either  hand,  bare,  rocky,  striped  into  long  furrows, 


122  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

mottled  over  with  debris  and  huge  fragments  of  stone,  and 
nearly  destitute  of  even  heather.  The  day  had  become 
clear  and  pleasant,  but  the  voice  of  a  bird  was  not  to  be 
heard  in  this  dismal  place,  nor  sheep  nor  goat  to  be  seen 
among  the  cliffs.  I  wish  my  favorite  John  Bunyan  had 
passed  a  night  in  it  at  the  season  when  the  heath-fires  of 
the  shepherds  are  flaming  on  the  heights  above,  —  were  it 
but  to  enable  him  to  impart  more  tangibility  to  the  hills 
which  border  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
Through  the  gloomy  vista  of  the  ravine  a  little  paradise 
seemed  opening  before  us,  —  a  paradise  like  that  which 
Mirza  contemplated  from  the  heights  of  Bagdad,  —  of 
smooth  water  and  green  islands.  '  There,'  said  my  com- 
rade, '  is  Loch  Marie ;  —  we  have  to  sail  over  it  for 
about  fourteen  miles,  as  there  is  no  path  on  which  we 
could  bring  the  cart  with  the  baggage ;  but  the  horse  and 
his  master  must  push  onward  on  foot/  The  carter  growled 
like  an  angry  bear,  but  said  nothing  we  could  understand. 
Emerging  from  the  ravine  our  road  ran  through  a  little 
moory  plain,  bordered  with  hills  which  seem  to  have  at  one 
time  formed  the  shores  of  the  lake.  A  few  patches  of  corn 
and  potatoes  that,  surrounded  by  the  brown  heath,  re- 
minded me  of  openings  in  a  dark  sky,  together  with  half-a- 
dozen  miserable-looking  cottages,  a  little  larger  than  ant- 
hills, though  not  quite  so  regularly  formed,  showed  us  that 
this  part  of  the  country  had  its  inhabitants. 

"  We  found  out  and  bargained  with  the  boatmen,  left  the 
carter  and  his  horse  to  make  the  best  of  their  way  by  land, 
and  were  soon  sweeping  over  the  surface  of  the  lake.  I 
have  already  fatigued  you  with  description,  but  I  must 
attempt  one  picture  more.  Imagine  a  smooth  expanse  of 
water  stretching  out  before  us  for  at  least  eighteen  miles, 
and  bordered  on  both  sides  by  lofty  mountains,  —  abrupt, 
precipitous,  and  pressing  on  one  another,  like  men  in  a 


LOCH    MAKIE.  123 

crowd.  On  the  eastern  shore  they  rise  so  suddenly  from 
the  water  that  the  eye  passes  over  them  mile  after  mile 
without  resting  on  a  single  spot  where  a  boat  might  land  ; 
on  the  west  their  bases  are  fringed  by  a  broken,  irregular 
plain,  partially  covered  with  a  fir  wood.  At  the  higher  end 
of  the  lake  two  mountains,  loftier  and  more  inaccessible 
than  any  of  the  others,  shoot  up  on  either  hand  as  if  to  the 
middle  sky,  and  we  see  large  patches  of  snow  still  resting 
on  their  summits,  —  gleaming  like  the  banners  of  a  fortress 
to  tell  us  that  they  are  strongholds  held  by  the  spirits  of 
winter,  —  and  from  whence  they  are  to  descend,  a  few 
months  hence,  to  ravage  the  country  below.  From  one  of 
these  mountains  there  descended  two  small  streams,  which, 
falling  from  rock  to  rock,  leaped  into  the  lake  over  the 
lower  precipice,  and,  whitened  into  foam  by  the  steepness 
of  their  course,  reminded  me,  as  they  hurried  through  the 
long  heath  then  in  blossom,  of  strips  of  ermine  on  a  cloak 
of  purple.  Towards  the  north  the  islands  seem  crowded 
together  like  a  flock  of  water-fowl.  They  vary  in  character, 
some  barren  and  heathy,  others  fertile  and  tufted  with 
wood.  On  the  largest,  which  is  of  the  better  and  more 
pleasing  description,  and  bears,  by  way  of  distinction,  the 
name  of  the  lake,  there  is  an  ancient  bury  ing-ground,  and, 
as  I  have  heard  said,  a  Druid  or  Runic  monument.  I 
would  fain  have  landed  on  it,  but  night  was  fast  coming 
on,  and,  besides,  my  time  was  my  employer's,  not  my  own. 
"  At  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  we  encountered  a  large 
boat  full  of  people.  A  piper  stood  in  the  bows,  and  the 
wild  notes  of  his  bagpipe,  softened  by  distance  and  multi- 
plied by  the  echoes  of  the  mountains,  formed  a  music  that 
suited  well  with  the  character  of  the  scene.  c  It  is  a  wed- 
ding party,'  said  my  comrade ;  '  they  are  going  to  that 
white  house  which  you  see  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  I  wish 
you  understood  Gaelic  ;  the  boatmen  are  telling  me  strange 


124  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

stories  of  the  loch  that  I  know  would  delight  you.  Do  you 
see  that  little  green  island,  that  lies  off  about  half  a  mile  to 
the  right  ?  The  boldest  Highlander  in  the  country  would 
hesitate  to  land  there  an  hour  after  sunset.  It  is  said  to  be 
haunted  by  wraiths  and  fairies,  and  every  variety  of  land 
and  water  spirit.  Directly  in  the  middle  of  it  there  is  a 
little  lake,  in  the  lake  an  island,  and  on  the  island  a  tree 
beneath  which  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies  holds  her  court. 
What  would  you  not  give  to  see  her  ?  '  Night  came  on  be- 
fore we  got  landed  ;  and  we  lost  sight  of  the  lake  while  yet 
sailing  over  it.  Is  it  not  strange  that  with  all  its  beauty  it 
should  be  so  little  known  ?  I  never  heard  nor  met  with  so 
much  as  its  name,  until  it  opened  upon  me  with  all  its 
islands,  except  once,  in  a  copy  of  verses  written  by  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  parish  of  Cromarty,  — a  Mr.  Williamson. 
The  voyage  terminated  about  an  hour  after  nightfall,  our 
journey  an  hour  after  midnight. 

"  Good-by.  My  companions  are  just  coming  in  to  din- 
ner. Shall  we  not  have  another  tete-a-tete  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  GAIRLOCH,  July,  1823. 

"  'Twas  as  well  you  didn't  wait  dinner  with  us  yesterday  ! 
We  have  quarrelled  with  the  minister's  wife,  who,  to  avenge 
herself,  magnanimously  refuses  to  sell  us  any  milk,  and  so 
our  only  food,  in  the  material,  at  least,  is  oatmeal,  prepare 
it  as  we  may.  The  carter  steals  fish  and  potatoes,  and  con- 
trives to  fare  pretty  well,  but  we  who  are  honest  come  on 
badly  enough.  For  my  own  part,  however,  I  am  not  far 
from  being  happy,  notwithstanding.  Do  look  round,  just 
for  one  minute,  and  see  the  sort  of  place  in  which  a  man 
can  be  happy.  The  sun  is  looking  in  at  us  through  the 
holes  in  the  roof,  —  speckling  the  floor  with  bright  patches, 
till  it  resembles  a  piece  of  calico.  There  are  two  windows 
in  the  apartment ;  one  of  them  filled  up  with  turf  and 


THE    GAIRLOCH.  125 

stone,  the  other  occupied  by  an  old,  unglazed  frame.  The 
fire  is  placed  against  the  rough,  unplastered  gable,  into 
which  we  have  stuck  a  pin,  for  suspending  our  pot  over  it ; 
the  smoke  finds  its  way  out  through  the  holes  of  the  roof 
and  the  window.  Our  meal-sack  hangs  by  a  rope  from  one  of 
the  rafters,  at  the  height  of  a  man's  head  from  the  floor,  — 
our  only  means  of  preserving  it  from  our  thievish  cohabit- 
ants, the  rats.  As  for  our  furniture,  'tis  altogether  ad- 
mirable. The  two  large  stones  are  the  steadiest  seats  I 
ever  sat  on,  though,  perhaps,  a  little  ponderous  when  we 
have  occasion  to  shift  them  ;  and  the  bed,  which  pray  ob- 
serve, is  perfectly  unique.  It  is  formed  of  a  pair  of  the 
minister's  harrows,  with  the  spikes  turned  down,  and  cov- 
ered with  an  old  door  and  a  bunch  of  straw ;  and  as  for 
culinary  utensils,  yonder  is  a  wooden  cog,  and  here  a  pot. 
We  are  a  little  extravagant,  to  be  sure,  in  our  household 
expenses,  for  times  are  somewhat  hard  ;  but  meal  and  salt, 
and  every  other  item  included,  none  of  us  have  yet  exceeded 
half  a  crown  per  week.  You  may  now  boast,  like  a  true 
scholar,  who  looks  only  at  the  past,  of  Diogenes  and  his 
tub,  and  the  comforts  of  philosophy. 

"  The  Gaiiioch,  as  you  will  find  by  consulting  your  map, 
is  an  arm  of  the  sea  on  the  western  coast  of  Ross-shire.  Its 
length  is  perhaps  somewhat  more  than  eight  miles,  its 
breadth  varies  from  three  to  five.  Where  it  opens  towards 
the  sea  the  water  is  deep,  and  clear  of  sunken  rocks ; 
nearer  its  bottom  there  are  several  small  islands.  The 
shores,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  little  sandy 
banks,  are  steep  and  rocky ;  the  surrounding  country  is 
Highland  in  the  extreme.  The  manse,  beside  which  I  re- 
side, and  at  which  I  am  employed,  is  situated  on  the  north- 
ern shore,  and  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the  sea. 
There  rises  behind  it  a  flat,  moory  hill,  speckled  with  large, 
gray  stones,  and  patches  of  corn,  somewhat  larger  than 


126  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

beds  of  onions,  only  not  quite  so  regularly  laid  out.  Far- 
ther away  there  is  a  little  scattered  village,  composed  of 
such  hovels  as  one  commonly  finds  in  the  remote  Highlands, 
and  containing  from  eighty  to  a  hundred  inhabitants,  who 
are  crofters  and  fishermen.  It  is  a  fact  that  the  Highlander 
of  the  present  day,  and  the  Highlander  of  four  hundred 
years  ago,  live  in  huts  of  exactly  the  same  construction ; 
and  their  mode  of  agriculture  here  has  been  quite  as  sta- 
tionary. 

"  I  must  enable  you  to  form  an  estimate  of  it.  The 
arable  land  is  equally  divided  among  all  the  families  of  the 
village;  a  long,  brown  moor  which  lies  behind  it  affords 
pasture  to  their  cattle,  of  which  every  one  has  an  equal 
number,  namely,  two.  The  rents  they  pay  the  proprietor, 
and  which  they  derive  from  the  herring  fishery,  are  of  course 
also  equal.  There  is  neither  horse  nor  plough  in  the  vil- 
lage,—  a  long,  crook-handled  kind  of  spade,  termed  a  cass 
clirom,  and  the  hoe,  supplying  the  place  of  the  latter,  the 
Highlander  himself,  and  more  particularly  his  wife,  that  of 
the  former;  for  here  (shall  I  yenture  the  expression?),  as 
in  all  semi-barbarous  countries,  the  woman  seems  to  be  re- 
garded rather  as  the  drudge  than  the  companion  of  the 
man.  It  is  the  part  of  the  husband  to  turn  up  the  land  and 
sow  it ;  the  wife  conveys  the  manure  to  it  in  a  square  creel 
with  a  slip  bottom,  tends  the  corn,  reaps  it,  hoes  the  pota- 
toes, digs  them  up,  and  carries  the  whole  home  on  her  back. 
When  bearing  the  creel  she  is  also  engaged  in  spinning  with 
the  distaff  and  spindle.  I  wish  you  but  saw  with  what 
patience  these  poor  females  continue  working  thus,  doubly 
employed,  for  the  greater  part  of  a  long  summer's  day.  I 
frequently  let  the  mallet  rest  on  the  stone  before  me,  as 
some  one  of  them  passes  by,  bent  nearly  double  with  the 
load  she  is  carrying,  yet  busily  engaged  in  stretching  out 
and. turning  the  yarn  with  her  right  hand,  and  winding  it 


11  COURTING."  127 

up  with  her  left.  Can  you  imagine  a  more  primitive  system 
"of  agriculture,  or  wonder  that  I  should  be  half  inclined  to 
imagine  that,  instead  of  having  taken  a  journey  of  a  few 
score  miles  to  witness  it,  I  had  retraced  for  that  purpose  the 
flight  of  time  for  the  last  six  centuries  ? 

"  I  am  now  going  to  turn  gossip,  and  to  give  you  some 
stories  of  myself.  I  am  a  great  egotist ;  but  how  can  I 
help  it  ?  I  have  no  second-hand  narratives  to  relate,  and  of 
what  I  myself  see  I  must  tell  you  what  I  myself  think. 
With  all  the  .different  members  of  the  minister's  family  I 
have  become  acquainted  in  some  degree  or  other.  The 
minister  himself  occasionally  honors  me  with  a  nod ;  his 
wife,  who  has  no  particular  quarrel  with  me,  for  'twas  not  I 
who  remarked  that  her  milk  '  smelt  of  the  last  week/  has 
once  or  twice  had  some  little  gossip  with  me.  I  am  busily 
courting  her  three  maids,  who,  though  they  have  not  a  syl- 
lable of  English  amongst  them,  are  very  kindly  teaching 
me  Gaelic ;  and  from  a  young  lady,  the  governess  of  her 
children,  I  have  borrowed  a  few  books.  One  of  these, 
though  published  in  Inverness  about  twelve  years  ago,  I 
have  not  had  the  chance  of  seeing  before.  It  is  a  small 
volume  of  poems  by  a  Miss  Campbell,  then  a  young  lady 
of  seventeen.  At  even  that  early  age  she  was  a  poetess, 
and  rich  in  those  sentiments  and  feelings  which  we  deem  so 
fascinating  in  the  amiable  and  accomplished  woman.  Even 
though  occasionally  the  girl  peeps  out  in  most  of  her  pieces, 
I  like  them  none  the  worse ;  her  puerilities,  joined  to  no 
equivocal  indications  of  a  fine  genius,  leading  one  to  enter- 
tain hopes  of  her  future  eminence ;  and  certainly,  if  her 
riper  years  have  but  fulfilled  the  promise  which  her  earlier 
ones  have  given,  she  must  be  now  a  very  superior  person 
indeed.  I  feel  much  interested  in  her,  and  wish  much  to 
know  what  has  become  of  her." 

Thus  abruptly  ends  the  narrative.     Miller's  jesting  allu- 


128  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

sion  to  the  three  inaids  whom  he  was  "  courting,"  suggests 
the  remark  that  his  insensibility  to  female  attractions  in  his 
youth  contrasts  strongly  not  only  with  the  impassioned  ad- 
miration of  Burns  for  every  beautiful  face  he  ever  saw,  but 
with  the  susceptibility  to  woman's  charms  common  to  vivid 
and  poetical  natures.  "  Miss  A ,"  one  of  his  acquaint- 
ances at  Gairloch,  asked  him  to  write  a  poem  upon  love. 
He  set  about  it  with  as  much  composure  of  mind  as  if  she 
had  asked  him  to  carve  an  inscription  on  a  gravestone. 
Here  are  the  four  opening  stanzas  :  — 

"  Though  meanly  favored  by  the  Muse, 

Though  scant  of  wit  and  time, 
On  theme  by  Celtic  maid  supplied, 
I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme. 

"  But  why  should  love  demand  my  song; 

It  breathed  from  Hammond's  lyre, 
On  Cowley's  page  its  meteors  flashed, 
On  Moore's  its  wilder  fire ; 

"  While  I,  who  never  proved  its  bliss, 

Ne'er  proved  its  restless  smart ; 
Who  have,  though  much  the  fair  I  prize, 
A  free,  unbleeding  heart, 

"  Can  paint,  alas  !  with  little  skill, 

The  joy  which  love  inspires, 
Or  tell  of  pangs  I  never  proved, 
Of  hopes  or  fond  desires." 

On  reading  this,  one  begins  to  have  misgivings  as  to  the 
intensity  of  Miller's  poetic  fire. 

"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame." 


POETICAL   FACULTY.  129 

thus  Coleridge  struck  the  key-note  when  his  theme  was  love. 
"  The  greatest  bliss  that  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name," 
sang  Hogg,  with  lilting,  lark-like  melody,  giving  his  expe- 
rience on  the  subject.  u  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme,"  observes 
Miller,  and,  "  though  much  the  fair  I  prize,  I  am  not  dis- 
posed to  exaggerate  their  good  qualities."  Miller  does  not, 
like  Teufelsdrockh,  find  that  his  "  feeling  towards  the 
queens  of  this  earth "  is  "  altogether  unspeakable."  Per- 
haps, however,  his  heart,  though  cold  to  the  many,  may 
prove  responsive  to  one,  and  for  him  also  there  may  bloom 
a  paradise,  "  cheered  by  some  fairest  Eve."  We  shall  see. 

Rhyming  or  reasoning,  courting  or  cogitating,  Hugh  Mil- 
ler, during  this  season  at  Gairloch,  is  worth  looking  at. 
Not  yet  twenty-one,  living  in  a  hovel  from  which  water,  a 
foot  deep,  has  been  drained  off  to  render  it  habitable,  his 
food  oatmeal  without  milk,  his  companions  stone-masons,  his 
employment  manual  labor,  he  bates  no  jot  of  hope  or  heart, 
but  takes  the  whole  with  a  frank  effulgence  of  mirth,  a  rug- 
ged humor  of  character,  which  bears  him  victoriously 
through.  It  never  strikes  him  that  there  is  hardship  in  his 
own  lot,  but  he  has  ready  sympathy  for  the  distresses  of 
others.  Might  not  some  Scotch  artist  try  to  realize  for  us 
that  picture,  drawn  by  Miller  of  himself  with  so  little 
thought  of  picturesque  effect,  when  the  pensive  lad  drops 
his  mallet  and  looks  at  the  Highland  woman,  bent  nearly 
double  with  her  burden,  yet,  as  she  wearily  trudges  past, 
working  with  both  hands  ?  One  can  see  the  kind,  grave, 
deep-thoughted  face,  the  steadfast  blue  eyes  moistening  with 
compassion,  the  lip  touched,  perhaps,  with  a  faint,  mourn- 
ful smile  of  stoical,  not  cynical,  acceptance  of  the  sternness 
of  fate. 

Miller's  poetical  faculty,  though  not  powerfully  stirred 
by  the  nymphs  of  Gairloch,  and  though  more  felicitous,  now 
and  subsequently,  in  prose  than  in  verse,  did  not  at  this 


130  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

time  slumber.  That  picture  of  the  old,  gray  tower  of 
Fairburn,  "  like  a  giant  eremite  musing  in  solitude,"  is  gen- 
uinely imaginative.  His  relations  with  the  other  inmates 
of  the  bothy  are  full  of  a  strong,  hearty,  buoyant  humor, 
which  floods  the  rugged  paths  of  life  with  sport.  The 
doings  of  the  carter,  who  "  bullies,  and  swears,  and  steals, 
and  tells  lies,  and  cares  for  nobody,"  are  manifestly  pro- 
ductive of  diversion  more  than  distress.  Miller,  in  fact, 
rather  likes  the  man,  though  he  feels  that  he  will  be  im- 
proved *by  a  beating.  The  carter  is  clearly  one  of  those 
favorites  of  nature  who  obey  her  promptings  and  receive 
her  rewards.  He  "  steals  fish  and  potatoes,"  and  makes 
himself  comfortable,  while  his  virtuous  brethren  do  penance 
on  oatmeal.  Such  a  man  appeals  irresistibly  to  that  in- 
stinct of  fallen  humanity  which  makes  us  admire  successful 
personages  like  Drawcansir  and  Reynard  the  Fox. 

One  of  Miller's  Gairloch  fellow-workmen,  who  exerted  a 
more  important  influence  upon  him,  is  described  with  some 
detail  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  but  I  have  not 
found  mention  of  him  elsewhere.  I  refer  to  John  Fraser, 
one  of  three  brothers,  who,  if  Mr.  Darwin's  theory  is  sound, 
were  a  variation  of  the  human  species  adapted  to  found  a 
race  of  superlative  masons  and  stone-cutters,  and  to  outlive 
and  extirpate,  by  natural  selection,  all  other  masons  and 
stone-cutters.  Miller  states,  on  the  authority  of  "  Mr. 
Kenneth  Matheson,  a  gentleman  well-known  as  a  master- 
builder  in  the  west  of  Scotland,"  that  David  Fraser,  the 
most  remarkable  of  the  brothers,  could  do  three  times  as 
much  as  an  ordinary  workman.  John,  even  when  advanced 
in  life,  could  build  against  "two  stout  young  fellows"  and 
"  keep  a  little  ahead  of  them  both."  u  I  recognize  old  John," 
says  Hugh  Miller,  "  as  one  of  not  the  least  useful  nor  able 
of  my  many  teachers ; "  and  the  justice  of  the  remark  is 
attested  by  the  admirably  philosophic  account  which  he 


DREAM.  131 

gives  of  the  lesson  old  John  taught  him.  The  secret  of 
Eraser's  power  was  that  he  saw  "  the  finished  piece  of 
work,"  as  it  lay  within  the  stone,  and  cut  down  upon  the 
true  figure  at  once,  without  repeating,  like  an  ordinary 
workman,  his  lines  and  draughts.  And  is  not  this  faculty 
of  seeing  with  the  mind's  eye  wrhat  the  hand  has  to  execute, 
—  of  conceiving  the  work  as  a  whole,  so  that  there  shall  be 
neither  hurry  nor  delay  in  carrying  it  out,  —  essentially  the 
facult}^  by  which  a  Hannibal  or  a  Napoleon  wins  battles,  a 
Dante  or  a  Shakespeare  writes  poems,  a  Titian  or  a  Turner 
paints  masterpieces? 

Writing  to  Baird  six  years  after  this  time,  Miller  relates 
the  following  dream,  which  belongs  to  the  Gairloch  season, 
and  is  omitted  from  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  It  is 
remarkable  as  containing  a  very  definite  prediction  which 
proved  incorrect.  "  About  the  middle  of  September,  this 
year,  I  had  a  singular  dream,  the  particulars  of  which  re- 
tain even  to  this  day  as  firm  a  hold  of  my  memory  as  if 
they  had  been  those  of  a  real  incident.  I  dreamed  that 
my  friend  William  Ross  had  died,  and  that  I  was  watching 
the  corpse  in  a  large,  darkened  apartment.  I  felt  sad  and 
unhappy.  Suddenly  there  appeared  near  the  couch  where 
the  body  lay  an  upright  wreath  of  thin  vapor,  which  grad- 
ually assumed  the  figure  of  my  deceased  friend.  The  face 
of  the  spectre  was  turned  towards  the  body,  and  the  robes 
of  white  in  which  it  was  dressed  appeared,  compared  with 
the  winding-sheet  beside  it,  as  a  piece  of  cambric  exposed 
to  the  rays  of  the  sun  would  to  another  piece  hung  up  in 
the  shade.  The  figure  turned  round  and  I  spoke  to  it ;  but 
though,  from  the  splendor  of  the  dress  it  wore,  and  the 
placid  expression  of  the  face,  which  was  of  feminine  beauty, 
I  inferred  it  to  be  a  spirit  of  heaven,  by  one  of  those  incon- 
sistencies common  in  dreams,  my  question  to  it  regarded 
the  state  of  the  damned.  '  I  know  nothing,'  it  said,  '  of 


132  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

the  damned.'  '  Then  describe  to  me,'  I  rejoined,  '  the  hap- 
piness of  the  blest.'  The  reply  was  strong  and  pointed : 
Live  a  good  life,  and  in  seven  days,  seven  weeks,  and 
seven  years  you  shall  know.'  I  must  add  that  I  have  since 
thought  much  oftener  of  the  prediction  than  of  the  advice." 
No  particular  incident  of  any  kind  appears  to  have  taken 
place  in  the  history  of  Miller  at  the  time  specified. 

The  work  at  the  manse  completed,  Miller  removed,  with 
two  of  his  brother  workmen,  to  a  village  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, to  build  a  house  for  an  innkeeper.  Their  lodging 
here  was  as  bad  as  at  the  place  they  left.  One  half  of  a 
large  cellar  used  for  storing  salt,  of  which  half  had  been 
pulled  down  to  furnish  materials  for  the  proposed  building, 
was  their  barrack.  They  hung  mats  across  the  open  end, 
through  which  the  wind  blew  cold  at  night,  awakening  them 
sometimes  by  dashing  the  rain  in  their  faces.  Their  fare 
was  improved  by  a  supply  of  excellent  milk,  and  the  inn- 
keeper made  a  point  of  inviting  them  to  dine  with  him  on 
Sunday.  "He  was  a  loquacious  little  man,  full  of  him- 
self, and  desirous  of  being  reckoned  a  wit,"  but  without 
capacity  to  play  the  part.  Miller,  less  talkative  than  his 
fellow- workmen,  was  supposed  by  mine  host  to  be  available 
as  a  butt,  and  was  made  the  object  of  sundry  small  witti- 
cisms. "  He  took  this  in  good  part  for  a  while,  but  one  day 
he  retorted  upon  his  entertainer  and  reduced  him  to  silence. 
The  consequence  was,  that  he  was  excluded  from  the  invi- 
tation next  Sunday,  and  left  to  regale  himself  on  oatmeal 
and  milk  in  the  solitude  of  the  barrack.  He  took  his 
revenge  in  a  way  gratifying  at  once  to  his  pride  and  his 
kindliness.  One  of  the  favored  workmen  had  bargained 
with  the  innkeeper  to  give  the  latter  a  hammer  and  trowel, 
but,  after  receiving  the  money  for  the  articles,  had  played 
him  false.  "  I  was  informed  of  the  circumstance,"  says 
Miller  to  Baird,  "  when  on  the  eve  of  setting  out  for  the 


LANDSCAPE.  133 

low  country ;  and  taking  my  hammer  and  trowel  from  my 
bundle,  I  presented  them  to  the  innkeeper's  wife,  —  alleg- 
ing, when  she  urged  me  to  set  a  price  on  them,  that  they 
were  a  very  inadequate  return  for  her  husband's  kindness 
to  me  during  the  two  first  weeks  of  our  acquaintance."  It 
was  a  mode  of  revenge  to  which  neither  Uncle  James  nor 
Uncle  Sandy  could  have  taken  exception. 

Before  quitting  the  Gairloch  scene  we  may  take  this  final 
picture  of  one  of  its  landscapes :  u  There  is  a  steep,  high 
hill,  rather  more  than  a  mile  from  the  manse  of  Gairloch,  to 
the  summit  of  which  I  frequently  extended  my  walks.  The 
view  which  the  eye  commands  from  thence  is  of  a  character 
wilder  and  more  sublime  than  can  be  either  rightly  imag- 
ined or  described.  Towards  the  east  and  south  there 
spreads  a  wide  savage  prospect  of  rugged  mountains, 
towering  the  one  over  the  other  from  the  foreground  to  the 
horizon,  and  varying  in  color,  in  proportion  to  the  distance, 
from  the  darkest  russet  to  the  faintest  purple.  They  are 
divided  by  deep,  gloomy  ravines  that  seem  the  clefts  and 
fissures  of  a  shattered  and  ruined  planet ;  and  their  sum- 
mits are  either  indented  into  rough  naked  crags,  or  whitened 
over  with  unwasting  snows,  —  forming  fit  thrones  upon 
which  the  spirits  of  winter  might  repose,  each  in  a  separate 
insulated  tef ritory ,  and  from  whence  they  might  •  defy  the 
milder  seasons  as  they  passed  below.  To  the  north  and 
west  the  scene  is  of  a  different  description ;  it  presents  a 
rocky  indented  shore,  and  a  wide  sea  speckled  over  with 
islands.  On  both  sides,  however,  though  the  features  are 
dissimilar,  the  expression  is  the  same.  Scarcely  more  of 
the  works  of  man  appear  visible  in  the  whole  wide  circum- 
ference than  appeared  to  the  gaze  of  Noah,  when  he  first 
stood  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Ararat,  and  contemplated 
the  wreck  of  the  deluge. 

"  It  was  on  a  beautiful  evening  in  the  month  of  June 


184  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

that  I  first  climbed  the  steep  side  of  this  hill  and  rested  on 
its  summit.  I  was  much  impressed  by  the  wide  extent  and 
sublime  grandeur  of  the  sceme.  Part  of  the  eastern  skirt 
of  the  Atlantic  was  spread  out  beneath  me,  mottled  with  the 
Hebrides.  In  one  glance  I  had  a  view  of  Longa,  .Skye, 
Lewis,  Harris,  Rona,  Eaza,  and  several  other  islands  with 
whose  names  .1  was  unacquainted.  The  sky  and  sea  were 
both  colored  with  the  same  warm  hue  of  sunset,  and 
appeared  as  if  blended  together ;  while  the  islands  which 
lay  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon  seemed  dense  purple  clouds, 
which,  though  motionless  in  the  calm,  the  first  sea-breeze 
might  sweep  away.  Towards  the  south  my  eye  was  caught 
by  two  gigantic  mountains,  which,  as  if  emulous  of  each 
other,  towered  above  the  rest,  like  the  contending  chiefs  of 
a  divided  people ;  while  towards  the  east  I  beheld  a  scene 
of  terrible  ruin  and  sublime  disorder,  —  mountain  piled 
upon  mountain,  and  ravine  intersecting  ravine.  All  my 
faculties  of  reason  and  imagination  seemed  at  first  as  if 
frustrated  and  held  down  by  some  superior  power ;  the 
magnitude  of  the  scene  oppressed  me ;  I  felt  as  if  in  the 
presence  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe ;  and  the  apology  of 
the  Jewish  spies  recurred  to  me,  '  We  were  as  grasshoppers 
before  them.' " 

This  was  written  when  Miller  was  twenty»seven.  It  is 
remarkable  for  the  absence  of  all  geological  allusion,  and 
for  the  strong  human  element  in  the  imagery.  When  he 
had  lived  for  another  quarter  of  a  century  he  again 
described  the  scene,  and  the  pencil  is  now  in  the  firm 
hand  of  a  master.  But  so  completely  has  the  geological 
interest  taken  possession  of  him  that  he  throws  it  back  into 
a  period  prior  to  that  at  which  it  exerted  any  powerful  influ- 
ence upon  his  mind,  and  makes  the  imaginative  boy  of 
twenty  look  through  the  eyes  of  the  scientific  man  of  fifty. 
Here  is  the  scene  as  he  rendered  it  for  the  last  time :  — 


THE    LANDSCAPE    AGAIN.  135 

"  How  exquisitely  the  sun  sets  in  a  clear,  calm,  summer 
evening  over  the  blue  Hebrides  !  Within  less  than  a  mile 
of  our  barrack  there  rose  a  tall  hill,  whose  bold  summit 
commanded  all  the  Western  Isles,  from  Sleat  in  Skye,  to 
the  Butt  of  the  Lewis.  To  the  south  lay  the  trap  islands  ; 
to  the  north  and  west  the  gneiss  ones.  They  formed,  how- 
ever, seen  from  this  hill,  one  great  group,  which,  just  as  the 
sun  had  sunk,  and  sea  and  sky  were  so  equally  bathed  in 
gold  as  to  exhibit  on  the  horizon  no  dividing  line,  seemed 
in  their  transparent  purple,  —  darker  or  lighter  according  to 
the  distance,  —  a  group  of  lovely  clouds,  that,  though  move- 
less in  the. calm,  the  first  light  breeze  might  sweep  away. 
Even  the  flat  promontories  of  sandstone,  which,  like  out- 
stretched arms,  enclosed  the  outer  reaches  of  the  foreground, 
—  promontories  edged  with  low  red  cliffs,  and  covered  with 
brown  heath,  —  used  to  borrow  at  these  times,  from  the 
soft  yellow  bean\,  a  beauty  not  their  own.  Amid  the 
inequalities  of  the  gneiss  region  within,  —  a  region  more 
broken  and  precipitous,  but  of  humbler  altitude,  than  the 
great  gneiss  tract  of  the  midland  Highlands,  —  the  chequered 
light  and  shade  lay,  as  the  sun  declined,  in  strongly  con- 
trasted patches,  that  betrayed  the  abrupt  inequalities  of  the 
ground,  and  bore,  when  all  around  was  warm-tinted  and 
bright,  a  hue  of  cold  neutral  gray  ;  while  immediately  over 
and  beyond  this  rough,  sombre  base,  there  rose  two  noble 
pyramids  of  red  sandstone,  about  two  thousand  feet  in 
height,  that  used  to  flare  to  the  setting-sun  in  bright  crim- 
son, and  whose  nearly  horizontal  strata,  deeply  scored 
along  the  lines,  like  courses  of  ashlar  in  an  ancient  wall, 
added  to  the  mural  effect  communicated  by  their  bare  fronts 
and  steep,  rectilinear  outlines.  These  tall  pyramids  form 
the  terminal  members,  towards  the  south,  of  an  extraor- 
dinary group  of  sandstone  hills,  of  denudation  unique  in  the 
British  Islands,  which  extends  from  the  northern  boundary 


136  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

of  Assynt  to  near  Applecross.  But  though  I  formed  at  this 
time  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  group,  it  was  not  until 
many  years  after  that  I  had  an  opportunity  of  determining 
the  relations  of  their  component  beds  to  each  other,  and  to 
the  fundamental  rocks  of  the  country." 

The  winter  of  1823  was  spent,  as  usual,  in  Cromarty. 
William  Eoss  was  in  Edinburgh,  and  Miller  had  no  friend 
of  his  own  age  with  whom  he  cared  much  to  associate.  He 
seems  to  hate  been  in  a  trivial  mood,  and  to  have  made 
business  of  amusement.  "  There  was,"  he  says,  "  a  little 
mischievous  boy  of  about  ten  years  of  age  wrhom  I  chose  as 
a  companion  for  lack  of  a  better.  He  was  spirited  and  sen- 
sible for  his  years,  and  deemed  me  a  very  superior  kind  of 
playfellow.  I  taught  him  how  to  climb  and  leap  and  wres- 
tle, how  to  build  bridges  and  rig  ships,  and  how  to  make 
baskets  and  rush  caps.  I  told  him  stories,  and  lent  him 
books,  and  showed  him  how  to  act  plays,  and  lighted  fires 
with  him  in  the  caves  of  the  hill  of  Cromarty,  and,  in 
short,  went  on  in  such  a  manner  that  my  acquaintance 
began  to  shake  their  own  heads  and  to  question  the  sound- 
ness of  mine.  My  Uncle  James,  who  used  sturdily  to 
assert,  in  the  face  of  all  opposing  evidence,  that  my  powers 
of  mind  averaged  rather  above  than  below  the  common 
standard,  seriously  told  me  about  this  time  th*at  if  I  would 
not  act  more  in  the  manner  of  other  people,  he  would  defend 
me  no  longer."  / 


CHAPTER    III. 

COMES    OF    AGE SETS     SAIL     FOR     EDINBURGH PARTING   RE- 
FLECTIONS  MORNING   ON   THE   MORAY  FRITH FIRST   SIGHT 

OF     EDINBURGH ABSENT     FROM     CHURCH     FOR     FIVE     SUN- 
DAYS    AND     UA     FEW     MORE" HOLYROOD,     CHARLES    II.'S 

STATUE,      EFFIGY     OF       KNOX,      THE       COLLEGE,     FERGUSON'S 
GRAVE,    DR.    McCRIE THE    PANORAMA,   THE   THEATRE. 

'ILLER  is  now  to  enter  upon  a  scene  in  all 
respects  new,  —  new  in  temptation,  new  in 
r\7) JV  V  instruction,  new  in  companionship.  He  ex- 
changes the  rustic  murmur  of  Cromarty  and 
the  solitudes  of  Gairloch  for  the  sights  and  agitations  of 
the  metropolis  of  Scotland.  He  has  acquired  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  character  and  circumstances  of  the  Scot- 
tish Highlander ;  he  is  to  bring  his  faculty  of  observation 
to  bear  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  Lowlands.  In  both 
instances  his  observation  is  as  yet  almost  entirely  confined 
to  the  working-class. 

In  the  autumn  of  1823  he  comes  of  age,  and  is  therefore 
competent  to  exercise  rights  of  proprietorship  over  a 
wretched  tenement  on  the  Coal-hill  of  Leith,  which  has  been 
a  constant  source  of  loss  and  annoyance  to  his  mother  from 
the  time  of  his  father's  death.  His  own  wish,  and  that  of 
his  friends,  now  is,  that  he  may  be  able  to  dispose  of  it,  and, 
with  a  view  to  investigating  the  affair  on  the  spot,  he  sails 
from  Cromarty  for  Leith  in  the  spring  of  1824.  I  have 
before  me  a  manuscript  containing  "  Descriptive  Letters," 

137 


138  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

written  by  him  to  his  uncles  in  the  course  of  the  summer. 
It  enables  us  to  trace  his  course  from  the  moment  of  his 
stepping  aboard  ship  until  the  series  abruptly  terminates 
with  part  of  a  letter  written  in  the  last  clays  of  the  year. 
As  might  have  been  surmised  from  the  affection  and  gentle- 
ness of  his  disposition,  he  thinks  more  at  first  of  the  home 
he  is  leaving  than  of  the  new  world  into  which  he  is  to  enter. 

• 

"  LEITH,  4th  June,  1824. 

"  The  ship  in  which  I  was  a  passenger  left  Cromarty  upon 
Sunday  forenoon  ;  and,  as  the  day  was  warm  and  pleasant, 
I  remained  upon  deck  till  evening,  with  my  eyes  stead- 
fastly fixed  upon  the  land  I  had  so  lately  left.  Every 
moment  it  was  lessening  and  growing  more  indistinct ;  but 
fancy  strengthened  my  powers  of  vision,  and  in  a  half-sad, 
half-sportive  mood,  I  was  marking  out  every  spot  which  in 
the  by-past  had  been  the  scene  of  my  juvenile  sports  or 
pleasures.  There,  thought  I,  looking  toward  the  hill  of 
Cromarty,  will  some  of  my  friends  be  stationed  with  their 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  departing  vessel,  and  though  she  appear 
but  a  small,  an  almost  imperceptible  speck,  yet  will  they 
deem  her  an  object  of  greater  interest  than  any  of  the  scenes 
the  eye  commands  from  that  eminence.  The  thought  was 
tender  and  pleasing.  There  was  something  in  it  that  told 
me  of  the  affection  of  the  friends  I  was  leaving,  and  of  the 
coldness  of  those  with  whom  I  was  soon  to  mingle.  But 
perhaps  'twill  be  for  the  better ;  that  coldness  may  rouse 
the  sleeping  energies  of  my  character,  and  when  I  find  my- 
self as  if  alone  in  the  world,  instead  of  resting  upon  the 
exertions  of  others,  I  shall  learn  to  depend  on  my  own. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  with  which  I  beguiled  the  time,  — 

Till  the  gray  mists  of  eve  arose,  and  wrapt 
My  native  hills  in  dark  and  formless  gloom. 


VOYAGE    TO    LEITH.  139 

"  Scarcely  had  the  sun  risen  when,  curious  to  know  in 
what  part  of  the  Moray  Frith  we  now  were,  I  rose  and  went 
upon  deck.  .  .  The  sun  hung  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon, 
and  illuminated  that  part  of  the  water  which  seemed  to  lie 
beneath  with  a  splendor  not  less  dazzling  than  its  own.  A 
solitary  porpoise  was  tumbling  around  our  vessel  in  un- 
wieldy sport.  A  "  killing"  of  sea-gulls  at  a  little  distance 
were  screaming  over  their  morning  banquet ;  while,  at  in- 
tervals, an  overgrown  seal  raised  his  round  black  head  above 
the  waves  and  gazed  upon  us  with  a  long  and  very  curious 
stare.  Upon  the  north  I  perceived  the  land  stretching  from 
Tarbat-ness  to  Jobn-o'-Groats,  while  upon  the  south  and 
east,  at  about  three  miles'  distance,  rose  the  bold,  rocky, 
and  romantic  shores  of  Moray  and  Banff.  Tower  and  town, 
hill  and  promontory,  in  their  turns  engaged  my  attention, 
and  after  having,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  passed  Portsoy, 
Banff,  Macduff,  and  Fraserburgh,  I  again  sought  my  bed, 
and  spent  this  night,  as  I  had  done  the  preceding,  in  calm 
and  refreshing  sleep. 

"Two  days  of  our  voyage  had  passed  pleasantly,  but 
upon  the  morning  of  the  third"  I  was  surprised  and  somewhat 
disheartened  when,  upon  getting  on  deck,  I  perceived  noth- 
ing but  a  dark  rolling  sea,  and  a  dense  cloud  of  mist  closing 
upon  the  vessel  upon  every  side.  .  .  Often  as  I  paced 
the  narrow  space  the  deck  afforded  me  did  I  behold  in  fancy 
the  scenes  I  was  soon  to  visit,  and  as  often  was  that  fancy 
carried  back  to  picture  the  regrets  and  joys  of  home.  But 
that  you  may  better  know  what  my  thoughts  were,  I  insert 
the  copy  of  a  short,  I  should  rather  say  unfinished,  poem  I 
composed  that  morning.  It  will  show  you  what  ideas  I  had 
formed  of  Edinburgh,  and  how  little  the  hope  of  its  pleas- 
ures appeared  when  compared  with  the  well-proved  joys  of 
the  home  I  had  left :  — 


140  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

"  Thou  mayst  boast,  O  Edina,  thou  home  of  delight, 
For  thy  gallants  are  gay,  and  thy  ladies  are  bright, 
August  is  thy  palace,  thy  castle,  sublime, 
Has  braved  the  rude  dints  of  fire,  battle,  and  time. 

"  Thou  mayst  boast,  O  Edina,  thou  famM  abode 
Of  the  wise  and  the  learned,  of  the  great  and  the  good, 
Thou  mayst  boast  of  thy  worthies,  mayst  boast  of  thy  towejs, 
Thy  halls  and  thy  temples,  thy  grots  and  thy  bowers. 

"  Yet  lovelier  by  far  and  more  dear  to  this  heart 
Than  all  your  gay  trophies  of  labor  and  art, 
Is  the  home  of  my  fathers,  the  much-loved  land, 
Of  the  dauntless  of  heart  and  the  mighty  of  hand. 

"  'Tis  there  the  gray  bones  of  my  fathers  are  laid, 
'Twas  there  that  my  life's  sunny  friendships  were  made, 
And  till  death  chills  my  bosom  and  closes  my  e'e, 
These  friends  and  that  land  shall  be  dear  unto  me." 

"  The  weather  was  still  extremely  thick,  and,  though  my 
eyes  were  earnestly  fixed  in  that  direction,  I  could  see  but 
little  of  Edinburgh.  Once  indeed  I  saw  the  chimneys  of  the 
new  town  appearing  through  the  mist,  like  the  shocks  of  a 
field  newly  reaped,  and  several  times  the  rugged  summit  of 
Arthur's  Seat  came  full  in  sight,  as  if  passing  through  the 
dark  cloud  which  obscured  its  base.  These  were  but  tran- 
sient glimpses,  but  of  the  town  of  Leith  I  had  a  full  and 
distinct  view.  A  young  lad,  one  of  the  passengers,  was 
pointing  out  to  me  the  harbor,  docks,  and  public  buildings, 
and  between  the  amusement  his  remarks  afforded  me  and 
the  pleasure  I  took  in  looking  at  the  vessels  we  passed  and 
repassed  in  the  roadstead,  an  hour  or  two  flew  away  very 
agreeably. 

"  By  a  signal  from  the  shore  we  were  made  to  understand 
that  the  water  in  the  channel  had  risen  to  a  requisite  height. 
The  vessel's  head  was  immediately  turned  that  way,  and 


EDINBURGH.  141 

in  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself  in  the  town  of  Leith,  my 
head  dizzied  with  the  confused  cries  of  watermen  and  car- 
ters, and  my  thoughts  scattered  by  a  multiplicity  of  objects, 
any  of  which  I  might  have  thought  curious,  but  all  of  which 
only  tended  to  confuse." 

This,  it  must  be  admitted,  is  a  rather  commonplace  epis- 
tle, and  the  verses  are  so  poor  that  an  apology  may  seem 
necessary  for  presenting  them  to  the  reader.  But  here  we 
have  at  least  the  lad  Miller  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  with  no 
gleam  from  the  after-time  to  disturb  the  artless  unconscious- 
ness of  modest,  simple-hearted  youth.  Both  in  his  letter  to 
Baird  and  in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters  "  there  are 
elaborate  pictures  of  his  first  sight  of  Edinburgh  ;  but  what 
first  impressed  him  in  the  scene  —  the  emergence  of  the 
chimneys  of  the  new  town  and  the  summit  of  Arthur's  Seat, 
from  the  mist — always  reappears.  It  is  well,  also,  tore- 
member  that  the  bareness  in  the  record  of  his  impressions 
which  meets  us  in  these  contemporary  letters  on  Edinburgh, 
may  arise  partly  from  his  inexperience  in  composition,  and 
partly  from  the  restraints  imposed  upon  epistolary  corre- 
spondence in  days  long  antecedent  to  the  introduction  of  the 
penny  post.  We  m&y  believe  that  it  was  not  merely  in  the 
autobiographic  retrospect  that  he  "  felt  as  if  he  were  ap- 
proaching a  great  magical  city  —  like  some  of  those  in  the 
4  Arabian  Nights  '  —  that  was  even  more  intensely  poetical 
than  nature  itself ; "  and  that  reminiscences  of  Ramsay  and 
Ferguson,  Smollett's  "Humphrey  Clinker"  and  Scott's 
"  Marmion,"  heightened  the  interest  with  which  he  looked 
through  the  canopy  of  mist  upon  the  spires  and  roofs  of  Ed- 
inburgh. 

The  great  city  —  to  one  who  had  never  seen  a  larger 
town  than  Inverness  it  was  very  great  —  threw  him  at  first 
out  of  all  his  habitudes.  He  frankly  confesses,  "  though 
conscious  that  by  so  doing  he  will  lay  himself  open  to  rner- 


142  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ited  censure,"  that  on  the  first  four  Sundays  after  his  arrival 
he  absented  himself  from  church  and  "  strolled  through  the 
streets  of  Leith  and  Edinburgh ; "  that  the  fifth  was  occu- 
pied in  scaling  Arthur's  Seat  and  viewing  the  city  and  ad- 
jacent country  from  its  summit;  and  that  u  a  few  more" 
were  passed  in  the  company  of  some  townsmen  of  his  own, 
who,  "  Cameronian-like,  preferred  the  open  air  to  a  church." 
The  impressions  formed  in  this  leisurely  survey  of  Edin- 
burgh are  described  at  some  length  to  his  uncles,  and  they 
set  before  us  the  Hugh  Miller  of  twenty-one,  with  a  dis- 
tinctness so  vivid  and  a  simplicity  so  naive,  that  we  feel 
still  more  strongly  than  before  how  completely  the  profound 
reflective  vein  of  the  autobiography  prevents  us  from  real- 
izing what  the  writer  was  at  the  various  stages  of  his  career. 
The  fervor  of  his  nationality  is  one  of  the  first  things 
which  attracts  our  notice.  "  Holyrood  House,"  he  says,  "  I 
viewed  with  the  same  emotion  which  a  pilgrim  feels  when 
prostrating  himself  before  the  shrine  of  a  favorite  saint. 
With  this  building,  long  before  I  saw  it,  I  had  connected 
associations  of  a  high  and  venerable  character,  but  I  was 
not  prepared  for  the  sudden,  the  spontaneous  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm, which  rose  from  my  very  soul  when  I  stood  front- 
ing the  gateway  and  saw  the  arms  of  Scotland,  as  if  it  was 
still  an  independent  kingdom,  frowning  in  the  gray  stone, 
and  directly  above  them  the  crown  of  her  ancient  kings. 
It  was  no  time  to  sum  up  the  advantages  which  we  derive 
from  the  union,  —  the  very  thought  of  it  was  revolting, — 
and  I  looked  upon  the  sentinel  who  paced  before  the  door 
as  one  who  had  no  business  there.  I  have  often  heard  of 
classic  and  of  holy  ground ;  to  me  the  space  upon  which 
this  pile  stands  is  both.  But  why  need  I  say  so  ?  To  you, 
or  to  any  other  Scotsman  acquainted  with  the  history  of  his 
country,  and  proud  (as  most  of  us  are)  of  the  fame  of  her 
ancient  grandeur,  it  must  appear  the  same.  Under  the 


STATUE    OF    CHARLES   II.  143 

piazza  which  runs  round  the  inner  court  I  walked  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  and  was  not  a  little  struck  with  the  death- 
like stillness,  —  a  stillness  interrupted  by  nothing  except 
the  measured  footfall  of  the  sentry ." 

He  is  much  disappointed  with  the  High  Street,  having 
been  led  by  something  he  had  read  in  the  works  of  Smollett 
to  fancy  that  it  was  "  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe."     He 
looks  with  great  contempt  upon  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Charles  II.  in  Parliament  House  Square.     "  This  lascivious 
and  dissipated  monarch,"  he  says,  "  is  attired  in  the  garb  of 
an  ancient  Roman ;  and,  by  his  appearance,  a  person  un- 
acquainted with  the  history  of  his  reign  might  suppose  him 
to  have  been  a  sapient  and  warlike  prince,  dauntless  in  the 
field  and  wise  in  the  council.     .     .     .     .     .     When  I  first 

saw  the  statue,  I  could  not  help  quoting  a  few  lines  from 
Thomson's  '  Liberty,'  which  will  appear  to  you  as  it  did  to 
me,  the  character  of  Charles  the  Second  faithfully  drawn, 
maugre  the  inscription  and  the  Roman  dress  :  — 

"  '  By  dangerous  softness  long  he  mined  his  way. 
By  subtle  arts,  dissimulation  deep, 
By  sharing  what  corruption  showered  profuse, 
By  breathing  wide  the  gay  lascivious  plague, 
And  pleasing  manners  suited  to  deceive, 

A  pensioned  king, 
Against  his  country  bribed  by  Gallic  gold.' " 

The  natural  and  unaffected  manner  in  which  Miller  alludes 
to  Smollett  and  Thomson  is  not  without  significance. 
How  completely  this  young  mason  is  already  a  literary 
character ! 

After  describing  his  impressions  on  the  effigy  of  Charles 
II.,  he  proceeds  in  a  very  different  spirit  to  refer  to  another 
and  less  pretentious  effigy  then  visible  in  Edinburgh.  "  At 
the  lower  end  of  High  Street "  —  these  are  his  words  —  "  is 


144  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

a  house,  from  a  window  of  which,  in  the  earlier  days  of  the 
Reformation,  John  Knox  frequently  used  to  preach.  To  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  this,  in  a  small  niche,  a  bust  of  the 
illustrious  Reformer  appears,  as  if  still  holding  forth  to  the 
people,  At  his  right  hand,  in  low  relief,  a  circle  represent- 
ing the  sun,  upon  which  the  name  of  God  is  inscribed  in 
Greek,  Latin,  and  English,  appears  as  if  emerging  from  a 
thick  cloud.  The  sculpture  of  the  whole  was  rude  when  at 
its  best,  and  the  wasting  hand  of  Time  has  rendered  it  still 
more  uncouth ;  nevertheless,  some  person,  doubtless  of 
more  zeal  than  judgment,  has  got  the  bust  painted,  and 
surrounded  it  with  a  tawdry  pulpit.  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  that  these  ill-judged  alterations  have  given  it  a  carica- 
tured appearance ;  and  yet  I  felt  more  impressed  when 
looking  at  it  from  the  very  spot  upon  which  some  of  the 
original's  auditors  stood,  than  I  did  when  standing  before 
the  horse  and  man  of  Parliament  Square :  for,  with  a  feel- 
ing which  perhaps  the  venerable  Reformer  would  have 
censured,  as  savoring  too  much  of  the  idolatry  he  abol- 
ished, I  uncovered  my  head  and  bowed  very  low  to  his 

effigy." 

His  estimate  of  Edinburgh  College  is  high,  and  the  terms 
in  which  it  is  couched  prove  that  he  had  already  acquired 
some  technical  knowledge  of  architecture.  "  The  College 
in  my  opinion  is  the  finest  building  in  Edinburgh,  either 
taken  in  its  parts  or  as  a  whole.  It  forms  a  square,  the 
exterior  of  which  displays  all  the  chaste  simplicity  of  the 
Doric  order,  and  the  interior  the  lighter  graces  of  the  Ionic 
and  Corinthian." 

He  visits  the  burying-'grounds  of  the  city :  here  is  an  inter- 
esting note.  "  I  have  seen  the  grave  of  poor  Ferguson,  and 
the  plain  stone  placed  at  its  head  by  his  brother  in  misfor- 
tune and  genius,  Robert  Burns.  I  felt  much  affected  when 
standing  above  the  sod  which  covers  the  mortal  remains  of 


DR.    McCRIE.  145 

the  young  poet,  and  could  have  dropped  a  tear  to  his 
memory  and  to  the  memory  of  his  still  greater  successor, 
but  I  was  not  Shanclean  enough  to  command  one.  You 
know  I  never  could  weep  except  when  insulted  and  stung 
to  the  heart  by  those  whose  unkindness  I  could  not  or  would 
not  resent,  and  then  the  tears  I  dropped  were  those  of  grief, 
rage,  hatred,  in  short,  the  offspring  of  any  passion  except 
tenderness."  This  is  a  touch  of  self-portraiture  worth 
whole  chapters  of  retrospective  delineation. 

In  another  of  these  letters,  dated  10th  October,  1824,  and 
addressed  to  his  Uncle  James,  we  meet  with  the  following 
careful  sketch  of  Dr.  McCrie.  "  I  had  long  wished  to  hear 
a  discourse  from  Dr.  McCrie,  the  elegant  historian  of  Knox 
and  Melville,  but  it  was  some  time  before  I  found  out  his 
meeting-house.  At  length  I  discovered  it,  and,  being 
obligingly  sliown  to  a  seat  by  one  of  his  elders,  I  sat  with 
some  little  portion  of  impatience  till  the  doctor  made  his 
appearance.  The  laudable  end  to  which  he  has  dedicated 
his  great  talents  in  rescuing  from  unmerited  contumely  the 
memory  of  our  venerable  Reformer  had  long  prepossessed  me 
in  his  favor,  and  this  prepossession  his  appearance  was  well 
calculated  to  confirm.  In  age  and  figure  I  know  not  where 
to  point  out  any  one  who  more  resembles  him  than  your- 
self. His  countenance  is  pale  and  expressive,  and  his  fore- 
head deeply  marked  with  the  lines  of  thought ;  the  spare- 
ness  of  his  habit  reminded  me  of  long  study  and  deep 
research,  and  his  demeanor,  at  once  humble  and  dignified, 
finished  the  portrait.  You  may  doubt  —  when  I  tell  you 
that  the  discourse  he  that  day  delivered  was  one  of  the 
best  I  ever  heard  —  that  my  partiality  blinded  me  to  its 
defects.  This  was  not  the  case  ;  for,  though  partial  to  the 
doctor,  it  was  his  superior  talents  that  made  me  so,  and  had 
his  discourse  been  of  that  dull,  commonplace  kind  which  I 
have  often  heard  in  a  church  that  shall  be  nameless,  my 


146  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

disappointment  would  have  been  great  in  proportion  to  my 
expectation.  I  need  not  tell  you  that,  as  an  historian,  Dr. 
McCrie  ranks  very  high.  At  a  time  when  every  witling 
thought  himself  licensed  to  ridicule  the  firmness  or  denounce 
the  boldness  of  the  Reformers  of  our  religion,  the  doctor 
stood  forth  in  their  defence,  and,  endowed  with  powers 
equal  to  the  task,  dispersed  the  dark  cloud  of  obloquy  in 
which  partial  or  designing  men  had  enveloped  their  names. 
If  we  consider  him  as  a  preacher,  he  will  appear  in  a  light 
as  favorable.  His  manner  is  calm  yet  impressive,  and  his 
sentiments  (always  beautiful,  and  ofttimes  highly  original) 
are  conveyed  in  language  strong  and  nervous,  yet  at  the 
same  time  plain  and  simple.  In  short,  Dean  Swift's  defini- 
tion of  a  good  style,  '  proper  words  in  their  proper  places,' 
can  be  very  well  exemplified  in  his.  I  have  now  heard  him 
several  times.  One  Sunday  his  voice,  which  is  not  naturally 
strong,  was  nearly  drowned  by  loud  and  continued  cough- 
ing, which  arose  from  every  corner  of  the  church.  For 
some  time  he  went  on  without  any  seeming  embarrassment, 
but  just  when  in  the  middle  of  an  important  argument 
made  a  full  stop.  In  a  moment  every  eye  was  fixed  upon 
the  doctor,  and  such  was  the  silence  caused  by  this  atten- 
tion that  for  the  space  of  a  minute  you  might  have  heard  a 
pin  fall.  c  I  see,  my  brethren,  you  can  all  be  quiet  enough 
when  I  am  quiet/  was  his  mild  and  somewhat  humorous 
reproof,  and  such  was  its  effect  that,  for  the  remainder  of 
the  day,  he  received  very  little  interruption.  There  was 
something  in  this  little  incident  that  gave  me  much  pleas- 
ure. I  thought  it  told  more  truly  of  the  discernment  and 
good  temper  of  the  doctor  than  even  his  discourse  did, 
beautiful  and  instructive  as  that  was." 

Very  little  is  added  to  this  in  the  "  Schools  and  School- 
masters." There  is  indeed  a  quiet  accuracy  in  the  portrait, 
which  shows  that  Miller  was  beginning  to  find  his  hand  as 


THE    PANORAMA.  147 

a  master  of  English  prose.  The  pale  complexion  and  ex- 
pressive features,  the  deep  thought-written  lines  of  the  fore- 
head, the  spare  habit,  the  humble  yet  dignified  demeanor, 
which  appear  in  the  sketch  of  the  mason  lad  from  Cromarty, 
bring  Dr.  McCrie  visibly  before  us.  The  doctor  was  in- 
deed a  notable  figure  in  the  Edinburgh  of  that  time.  He 
exercised  a  profound  influence  upon  the  intellectual  society 
of  Scotland,  and  left  behind  him  at  least  one  work,  the 
biography  of  Knox,  which  has  an  imperishable  place  in  the 
literature  of  Europe.  Connected  ecclesiastically ;  with  a 
very  small  religious  denomination,  he  rose  by  a  natural 
and  effortless  ascent,  through  the  force  of  his  solitary 
genius,  until  he  found  his  level  among  the  most  eminent 
men  of  his  time.  Miller,  long  afterwards,  finely  compared 
him,  in  relation  to  the  co-religionists  which  clustered  round 
him,  to  a  village  church  rearing  its  tower  amid  a  group  of 
cottages. 

But  it  was  not  only  to  burying-grounds  and  churches 
that  Miller  betook  himself  during  his  residence  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Edinburgh.  In  our  last  extracts  he  has  ap- 
peared somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  philosopher  and  critic, 
but  we  are  reminded,  as  we  accompany  him  to  the  pano- 
rama, that  he  has  not  yet  thrown  off  the  boy.  It  was 
rather  hard  in  the  autobiographer  of  fifty  to  omit  all  notice  of 
the  event  chronicled  in  the  following  animated  sentences  :  — 

"Upon  the  earthen  mound  where  the  good  people  of 
Edinburgh  see  shows  and  sights  of  all  descriptions,  from  the 
smoking  baboon  to  the  giant  of  seven  feet  and  a  half, 
stands  a  circular  wooden  building,  which  in  size  and  appear- 
ance reminds  the  reader  of  Gulliver's  travels  of  the  wash- 
ing tub§  of  Brobdignag.  In  this  building  all  the  pano- 
ramic scenery  which  is  painted  in  or  brought  to  Edinburgh 
is  exhibited.  The  battle  of  Trafalgar,  together  with  a 
series  of  scenes  representing  the  Emperor  of  France,  from 


148  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

the  skirmish  of  Genappe  till  his  death  in  the  solitary  island 
of  St.  Helena,  was,  when  I  came  here,  the  subject  of  exhibi- 
tion. Of  this  species  of  entertainment  I  had  formed  no 
idea,  and  willing  to  fill  up  the  blank  which  a  name  unac- 
companied with  an  idea  leaves  in  the  mind,  and  perhaps 
not  a  little  urged  by  a  natural  fondness  for  sights  of  the 
amusing  description,  I  left  my  work  one  evening  about  an 
hour  sooner  than  usual,  called  upon  my  friend,  Will  Ross, 
as  I  passed  his  way,  and  accompanied  by  him  made  directly 
for  the  panorama.  We  were  ushered  into  a  darkened  gal- 
lery, the  sides  and  ceiling  of  which  were  covered  with 
green  cloth.  Our  eyes  were  immediately  turned  towards 
an  opening  about  thirty  feet  in  width,  through  which,  by  a 
striking  illusion,  we  perceived  the  ocean  stretching  out  for 
many  leagues  before  us,  and  upon  it  the  British  fleet,  com- 
manded by  Nelson  and  Collingwood,  bearing  down,  a  dou- 
ble line,  upon  the  enemy,  who  at  a  little  distance,  in  the 
form  of  a  crescent,  seemed  to  await  their  coming.  Not  even 
in  a  camera  obscura  have  I  seen  anything  so  natural.  The 
sun  seemed  beaming  upon  the  water ;  the  British  pendant 
was  unfolding  to  the  wind ;  the  vessels  appeared  as  if 
gently  heaving  to  the  swell,  while  upon  their  decks  all  was 
bustle  and  activity.  The  marines  were  loading  their  mus- 
kets ;  the  seamen  were  employed  about  the  great  guns ; 
some  of  the  officers  were  busied  in  giving  orders,  and  others 
with  great  anxiety  were  looking  through  their  glasses  as  if 
to  catch  every  movement  of  the  enemy.  In  truth,  the  de- 
ception was  so  complete  that,  forgetting  the  ground  upon 
which  I  stood,  I  fancied  myself  just  on  the  eve  of  a  great 
battle,  and  felt  my  mind  impressed  with  that  indescribable 
emotion  which,  in  the  reality  of  such  a  circumstance,  the 
young  soldier  always  feels.  This  scene  was  soon  changed, 
and  in  its  place  another  represented  which  displayed  all 
the  terrible  confusion  of  the  engagement.  The  first  only 


BATTLE    OF   TRAFALGAR.  149 

showed  us*  the  cloud  that  concealed  the  storm ;  here  it  was 
represented  as  if  bursting  in  its  full  fury.  It  was  the  deck 
of  the  '  Victory,'  as  it  appeared  at  the  moment  Nelson 
received  his  death  wound.  You  will  have  some  idea  of  the 
size  of  the  picture  when  I  tell  you  that  there  were  above 
two  hundred  figures,  all  as  large  as  life,  at  once  under  my 
eye.  In  the  middle  of  these  was  Nelson ;  the  sword  was 
falling  from  his  hand ;  his  features  were  distorted  as  if  by 
sudden  and  acute  pain  ;  and  the  pale,  cadaverous  hue  of  his 
countenance  betokened  speedy  dissolution.  The  attention 
of  the  figures  nearest  him  seemed  to  be  entirely  engrossed  by 
his  iiill ;  an  anxious  expression  of  the  countenance  or  a  sud- 
den turn  of  the  head  showed  that  those  at  a  greater  dis- 
tance had  some  faint  perception  of  what  had  happened, 
while  others  in  the  outskirts  of  the  picture  were  busied  in 
working  the  guns,  or  in  supplying  those  who  wrought  them 
with  ammunition.  A  few  paces  from  Nelson,  a  young^)fficer 
w*is  etigerly  pointing  out  to  a  marine  the  main-top  of  one 
of  the  vessels  with  which  the  '  Victory '  was  engaged, 
from  which  the  fatal  bullet  was  supposed  to  have  come, 
and  he.  with  great  deliberation,  was  levelling  his  musket  in 
that  direction.  The  third  scene  was  of  a  terrific  descrip- 
tion. It  represented  the  battle  as  if  drawing  near  its  close. 
In  the  foreground  was  the  '  Redoubtable/  a  French  ship 
of  the  line,  on  fire.  The  flames  were  bursting  out  furi- 
ously from  window  and  gun-port,  tinging  the  waves  below 
with  a  red  and  fiery  glare.  Some  of  the  crew  were  seen 
throwing  themselves  overboard ;  while  others,  with  de- 
spair depicted  on  their  countenances,  were  clinging  to  the 
vessel's  sides  as  if  uncertain  which  death  to  choose.  The 
fourth  and  last  scene  was  of  a  calm,  but,  though  it  repre- 
sented the  hour  of  victory,  of  a  gloomy  character.  In  the 
distance  a  few  of  the  fugitive  vessels  were  seen  giving  their 
broadside  and  crowding  on  every  sail  to  expedite  their 


150  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

flight.  In  the  foreground  all  was  desolation.  Dismasted 
and  shattered  vessels,  huge  fragments  of  rigging  to  which 
a  few  shivering  wretches  still  clung,  and  a  sun  again  shin- 
ing through  a  clearing  atmosphere  on  the  madness  and  the 
misery  of  man,  made  this  scene,  like  the  last  of  a  tragedy, 
by  far  the  saddest." 

From  the  panorama  he  turns  to  the  theatre.  Much  of 
his  reading,  he  says,  had  been  of  a  description  approved  by 
Uncle  James,  but  he  had  read  more  plays  and  novels  than 
would  have  been  sanctioned  by  that  stern  moralist.  He 
cannot  see  that  they  have  done  him  much  harm,  and,  sure 
enough,  "  no  small  portion  of  the  pleasure  he  had  experi- 
enced in  this  world  had  been  derived  from  them."  He  will 
not,  however,  undertake  to  defend  this  species  of  reading ; 
he  means  only  to  introduce  the  remark  that,  being  largely 
acquainted  with  plays  and  novels,  and  possessing  a  fancy 
naturally  strong,  he  had  formed  too  high  an  idea  .of  theatri- 
cal representation,  and,  when  he  saw  the  theatre,  was  dis- 
appointed. "  When  reading,"  he  says,  "  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare  or  of  Otway,  of  Eowe  or  of  Addison,  I  saw 
with  the  mind's  eye  their  heroes  not  as  actors,  but  as  men  ; 
and  the  scenes  they  described  brought  to  my  view  not  the 
painted  scenes  of  the  stage,  but  the  real  face  of  nature,  in 
the  same  manner  that  a  beautiful  portrait  gives  us  the  idea 
of  a  real  person,  not  of  a  mask.  But  when  I  saw  men  who 
neither  in  appearance  nor  reality  came  up  to  the  idea  I  had 
formed  of  the  characters  they  represented,  I  rated  them  in 
the  bitterness  of  my  soul  as  mere  pretenders  who  could  not 
act  their  part  upon  the  stage  so  well  as  common  men  do 
the  parts  assigned  them  in  the  great  drama  of  life." 

He  appears  to  have  grown  ashamed  in  a  few  years  of  the 
boyish  delight  with  which  he  gazed  upon  the  panorama. 
In  the  letter  to  Baird,  he  passes  over  his  visit  with  the 
single  remark,  u  I  was  more  pleased  with  the  panorama 


DISAPPOINTED    WITH    THE    STAGE.  151 

than  with  the  theatre."  His  account  of  his  theatrical  ex- 
periences contains,  indications  of  the  extent  of  his  dramatic 
reading.  "  I  several  times  attended  the  theatre,  but  I  did 
not  derive  from  theatrical  representation  half  the  pleasure 
I  had  anticipated.  I  had  read  a  great  many  plays  of  the 
different  English  authors  from  the  days  of  Shakespeare 
down  to  those  of  Cumberland  and  Sheridan.  I  had  perused, 
too,  translations  of  Terence  and  Moliere.  My  acquaint- 
ance with  this  department  of  literature  was  perhaps  prema- 
ture ;  for  I  perused  most  of  these  works  at  too  early  an  age 
to  appreciate  their  merits  as  compositions,  or  to  draw  com- 
parisons between  their  dramatis  personal  and  the  people  of 
the  world.  The  impression,  however,  which  the  more  strik- 
ing scenes  and  characters  had  left  on  my  imagination  was 
ineffaceably  vivid.  Most  of  the  scenes  were  identified  in 
my  mind  with  the  beautiful  scenes  of  the  hill  of  Cromarty. 
The  cliff  of  Dover,  even  in  Shakespeare,  could  not  surpass 
in  grandeur  of  feature  the  rock  of  the  Apple-yardie,  a 
rugged,  hoary,  perpendicular  precipice,  nearly 'three  hun- 
dred feet  in  height,  —  crested  by  a  dark  wood,  —  skirted  by 
a  foaming  sea,  —  partially  mantled  with  ivy,  —  caverned 
at  its  base,  and  continually  lifting  up  its  voice  in  hollow 
echoes  as  if  holding  converse  with  the  waves  that  toil  be- 
neath it,  or  the  innumerable  flocks  of  sea-birds  that  scream 
around  it.  The  Jacques  of  my  imagination  moralized  in  a 
solitary  opening  in  the  thicket  above,  from  which  a  long 
vista  that  pentrates  into  the  recesses  of  the  wood,  and 
becomes  narrower  and  darker  in  the  distance,  is  seen  to 
terminate  in  a  small  circular  opening  which,  when  the 
evening  sun  rests  on  the  hill  behind,  may  remind  one  of 
the  beacon  of  a  lighthouse.  I  found  it  the  easiest  thing 
imaginable  to  convert  the  cavern  in  which  I  had  been  once 
imprisoned  into  the  cave  of  Belarius  ;  and  an  old  vault  in  a 
ruinous  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Regulus,  and  nearly  buried 


152  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

among  the  woods  of  the  hill,  furnished  me  with  a  proper 
tomb  for  the  Capulets.  The  other  scenes  were  of  as  suita- 
ble a  character  ;  and  the  figures  with  which  I  peopled  them 
were  as  strongly,  though  in  some  instances  more  whimsi- 
cally, defined.  I  conceived  of  Caliban  as  a  monster  that 
scarcely  less  resembled  a  huge  beetle  than  a  human  crea- 
ture, and  that  walked  erect  and  on  all  fours  b}^  turns.  The 
witches  of  Macbeth  appeared  to  me  in  the  forms  of  some  of 
the  most  disagreeable-looking  old  women  in  the  country,  — 
not,  however,  in  their  living  aspects,  but  in  those  which  I 
fancied  their  corpses  would  have  assumed,  should  they, 
after  being  committed  to  the  grave,  be  possessed  by  evil 
spirits.  The  ideas  of  female  grace  and  elegance  which  I 
connected  with  the  heroines  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  lady 
of  the  Mask  of  Comus,  w^ere  mostly  derived  from  a  beauti- 
ful painting  in  Cromarty  House,  —  a  copy  of  G-uido's 
famous  Aurora,  which,  when  a  boy,  I  have  contemplated 
for  hours  together.  It  was  in  consequence  of  my  having 
acquired  such  ideas  as  these  of  the  characters  and  scenes 
of  dramatic  poetry  that  I  was  now  displeased  with  both 
actors  and  the  stage.  The  stage  I  regarded  as  merely  a 
little  area  floored  with  fir  deal  and  surrounded  by  painted 
sheets ;  —  the  actors  as  a  company  of  indifferent-looking 
people  who  could  bear  no  comparison  with  either  the  ideal 
dramatis  personce  of  my  imagination,  or  the  real  characters 
whom  I  had  seen  acting  their  parts  in  the  great  drama  of 
life.  On  the  evening  I  first  sat  in  the  Theatre  Royal  of 
Edinburgh,  I  felt  as  if,  after  having  admired  an  exquisite 
portrait,  which  the  art  of  the  painter  had  almost  awakened 
into  life,  I  should  be  asked  whether  I  could  not  recognize 
the  original  of  it  in  an  inanimate  imao'e  of  wax." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

NIDDRIE BLACKGUARD    WORKMEN  MILLER    PREJUDICED 

BY    THEM    AGAINST    THEIR    CLASS  HIS    OPINIONS    ON 

TRADES'    UNIONS  —  THE    "  BOATMAN'S    TALE  "  —  RETURNS 
TO  CROMARTY. 


Itt 

QjJH' 


'ILLEB,  soon  found  employment  in  his  trade. 
The  scene  of  his  labor  during  his  residence 
near  Edinburgh  was  the  village  of  Niddrie, 
where  he  was  one  of  a  company  of  workmen 
engaged  in  building  an  addition  to  Niddrie  House.  To 
give  ourselves  a  vivid  idea  of  the  locality,  exactly  as  it 
impressed  itself  upon  him  at  the  time,  we  cannot  do  better 
than  avail  ourselves  of  his  own  description,  which  we  find 
in  a  letter  to  Uncle  Alexander,  dated  15th  December, 
1824 :  — 

"  We  shall,  if  you  please,  ascend  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
Niddrie  House,  and  from  thence  survey  the  country.  As 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach  in  an  east  or  southerly  direction,  a 
low,  unvaried  flat  presents  itself,  gradually  rising,  as  it  re- 
cedes from  the  sight,  into  low,  swelling  hills,  and  falling 
with  a  sweep  as  gradual  towards  the  Frith  of  Forth,  which 
from  this  elevation  appears  in  all  its  extent,  glittering  with 
many  sails.  Upon  the  north  and  west  the  face  of  the  coun- 
try is  of  a  bolder  character.  Arthur's  Seat  and  Salisbury 
Crags  upon  the  one  hand,  and  the  blue,  heathy  Pentland 
hills  upon  the  other,  will  remind  us  of  the  beautiful  and 
picturesque  scenery  which  surrounds  our  native  town. 

153 


154  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

To  the  grounds  about  Niddrie  my  work  gives  me  access. 
Often,  in  the  fine  summer  evenings,  have  I  sauntered 
through  its  fields  and  woods,  alone,  but  not  solitary,  watch- 
ing the  last  beam  of  the  sun  as  it  tinged  with  a  purple  hue 
the  Pentland  hills,  or  as  it  streamed  on  the  roofless  walls 
and  dismantled  turrets  of  Craigmillar  Castle.  .  .  .  Nid- 
drie House  is  a  large,  irregular  building,  bearing  date  in  one 
part  1636,  and  in  another  not  yet  finished.  The  modern 
addition  will,  when  the  winter  storms  of  a  few  years  have 
soiled  the  natural  hue  of  the  stone  and  rounded  the  angular 
mouldings,  appear  by  far  the  most  antique,  as  it  is  executed 
in  the  heaviest  style  of  the  Saxon  Gothic.  The  large,  mul- 
lioned  windows  are  crowned  with  rich  labels,  and  the  walls 
deeply  indented  with  moulded  embrasures.  Octagon  turrets 
rising  above  the  roof  project  from  every  corner,  and  instead 
of  those  large  stacks  of  chimneys  which  disfigure  many 
modern  houses,  here  every  one  has  its  own  airy  column,  con- 
nected at  top  to  the  rest  by  a  star-like  cope.  When  fin- 
ished, you  might  suppose  this  building,  from  its  antique 
appearance  and  secluded  situation,  to  have  been  some  nun- 
nery founded  by  that  church-endowing  monarch,  David  I. 
Adjoining  the  house  is  a  large  garden,  which,  from  its  irreg- 
ular and  partial  cultivation,  differs  very  little  in  appearance 
from  the  surrounding  pleasure-grounds.  In  that  corner  of 
it  which  liqs  nearest  the  north-west  gable  of  the  house  is  a 
vault  in  which  the  Wauchopes  of  Niddrie,  time  immemorial, 
have  been  interred.  Its  front  is  screened  by  a  huge  bush 
of  ivy,  which,  overshading  the  door  and  twining  about  a 
sepulchral  urn  that  rests  directly  above,  gives  the  whole  a 
gloomy  yet  picturesque  appearance.  Death  does  not  move 
the  bodies  of  the  proprietors  of  Niddrie  far  from  the  house 
which  sheltered  them  when  living ;  the  dead  Laird  in  his 
vault  is  not  thirty  feet  distant  from  the  living  one  in  his 
bedchamber.  Bounding  the  other  extremity  of  the  garden 


NIDDRIE.  155 

is  a  bury  ing-ground,  in  which  the  humbler  inhabitants  of 
the  country  and  village  adjacent  find  their  last  resting- 
place.  It  is  a  solitary  spot,  embosomed  in  wood,  and  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  any  house.  These  circumstances, 
which  in  the  north  country  would  make  a  burying-ground 
after  nightfall  the  supposed  haunt  of  restless  spirits,  here 
affords  the  violator  of  sepulchres  opportunity  to  tear  from 
its  grave  the  newly  deposited  body,  and  to  convey  it  to 
some  of  the  dissecting-rooms  about  Edinburgh.  Such  is  the 
barbarous  audacity  of  these  wretches,  that  they  frequently 
break  and  overturn  monuments  which  lie  in  their  way  ;  and, 
without  any  desire  of  concealing  their  depredations,  leave 
the  violated  graves  half  open,  and  scatter  around  them,  as 
if  in  derision,  the  cerements  that  wrapped  the  body.  I 
hope  I  am  not  bloodthirsty,  yet  I  think  I  could  level  a  mus- 
ket at  the  villain  who  robbed  the  tomb  of  the  body  of  one 
of  my  relatives,  with  as  much  composure,  and  with  as  little 
compunction,  as  I  would  feel  in  taking  aim  at  a  wooden 
target. 

"  The  house,  or  rather  cottage,  in  which  I  at  present 
lodge  stands  upon  the  side  of  the  Dalkeith  road.  It  is 
sheltered  on  the  north  and  west  by  the  Niddrie  woods,  and 
on  the  east  fronts  a  wide  though  not  diversified  prospect  of 
corn-fields  and  farm-steadings.  From  the  -door  at  night, 
through  a  long,  wooded  avenue,  I  see  the  Inchkeith  light 
twinkling  in  the  distance,  like  a  star  rising  out  of  the  sea." 

Thus  does  he  nourish  a  youth  hardly  sublime,  yet  not 
without  its  genially  fostering  elements  and  influences ; 
sauntering  among  the  leafy  woods,  watching  the  sunset  as 
it  streams  along  the  broad  valley  from  the  west,  and  deep- 
ens into  purple  the  green-blue  of  the  Pentlands,  looking 
through  the  wooded  avenue  until  the  Inchkeith  light  flashes 
out  above  the  darkening  sea.  "  Nunquam  minus  solus 
quam  cum  solus,  —  "  alone,"  as  he  puts  it,  "  but  not  soli- 


156  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

tary,"  —  he  communes  with  his  own  heart,  ponders  on  men 
and  things,  and  lays  up  fact  after  fact,  conclusion  after  con- 
clusion, in  a  memory  which,  from  his  sixth  year,  appears  to 
have  lost  not  one  gleaning  of  his  experience.  With  the 
peace  and  beauty  of  nature  around  him,  and  Edinburgh  at 
hand,  his  circumstances  might  at  first  sight  be  pronounced 
favorable. 

There  was,  however,  a  very  important  drawback.  It  was 
a  serious  misfortune  for  Miller,  and  one  which  left  deep 
traces  of  its  injurious  influence  upon  his  mind,  that  the  men 
in  company  with  whom  he  worked  at  Niddrie  were,  for  the 
most  part,  dissolute  and  worthless.  Nor  were  the  excep- 
tions of  a  kind  likely  to  inspire  him  with  any  enthusiasm 
for  the  order  to  which  he  provisionally  belonged.  They 
were  men  of  strong  religious  sentiments,  but  narrow  intel- 
lects, unable,  save  by  the  silent  eloquence  of  their  moral 
superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  squad,  to  make  any  impression 
either  upon  him  or  upon  their  comrades.  The  others  were  as 
bad  specimens  of  their  class  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive. 
Selfish  and  wilful  as  spoiled  children,  brutishly  sensual,  flip- 
pantly, because  ignorantly,  infidel,  habitually  profane,  they 
showed  Miller  how  base  a  thing  a  working-man  can  be,  and 
to  his  dying  day  his  opinion  of  working-men  retained  the 
stamp  which  it  received  in  the  society  of  these  reprobates. 
Owing  to  the  building  mania,  which  was  at  its  height  at  this 
time,  they  had  abundance  of  work  and  high  wages ;  but 
they  were  mean  enough  to  be  jealous  of  the  workmen  from 
the  North,  and  Miller  found  himself  exposed  to  the  thou- 
sand nameless  vexations  which  spiteful  cunning  can  suggest 
to  mechanics  wishing  to  subject  a  comrade  to  humiliation. 
It  is  often  necessary  for  a  stone-cutter,  in  order  to  have  the 
block  which  he  hews  placed  conveniently  for  the  chisel  and 
mallet,  to  be  assisted  by  his  fellow-workmen.  This  cus- 
tomary civility  was  refused  to  Miller,  whose  pride  prevented 


WORTHLESS   FELLOW-WORKMEN.  157 

him  from  begging  a  favor,  or  complaining  of  its  being  tac- 
itly refused.  The  ablest,  and,  except  himself  and  the  reli- 
gious workmen,  the  best  in  the  squad,  was  a  young  man 
whom  he  calls  "  Cha."  He  was  the  "  recognized  hero  "  of 
the  band,  and  his  heart  seems  to  have  smote  him  on  account 
of  the  base  combination  against  a  stranger.  He  put  an  end 
to  it  by  stepping  out  one  day  to  assist  Miller,  when  he  was 
being  left  to  roll  up  to  his  block-bench  a  stone  of  the  size 
which  two  or  three  commonly  united  to  place. 

Even  Cha,  however,  was  not  merely  a  blackguard,  but,  in 
all  that  relates  to  moral  sanity  and  self-respecting  manhood, 
a  fool.  Like  the  majority  of  his  fellows,  he  celebrated  the 
fortnightly  payment  of  wages  by  two  or  three  days  of 
drunkenness  and  debauchery.  He  was  leader  in  the  follow- 
ing feat,  the  account  of  which  I  extract  from  the  letter  to 
Baird,  as  one  or  two  of  its  traits  are  omitted  from  the 
autobiography  :  "  On  a  Saturday  evening  three  of  the  Nid- 
tlrie  workmen,  after  having  received  a  fortnight's  wages, 
which  in  all  amounted  to  more  than  six  pounds,  went  to 
Edinburgh,  and  there  spent  the  night  in  a  house  of  bad 
fame.  Next  morning  they  hired  a  coach,  and,  accompanied 
by  three  women  of  the  town,  set  out  for  Roslin  on  a  jaunt 
of  pleasure.  They  came  back  to  Edinburgh  in  the  evening, 
passed  the  night  as  they  had  done  the  preceding  one,  and 
returned  to  Niddrie  on  Monday  without  a  single  shilling." 
Such  was  Cha,  and  to  his  taking  the  lead  in  expeditions  of 
this  kind  he  appears  to  have  in  large  measure  owed  his  repu- 
tation for  cleverness  and  spirit.  The  revolting  exploit  just 
mentioned  was  spoken  of  with  enthusiasm  in  the  shed,  and 
the  workmen  regaled  each  other  for  days  after  with  accounts 
of  similar  feats  which  they  had  executed,  or  of  which  they 
had  heard.  "  I  was  told,"  proceeds  Miller,  "  of  an  Edin- 
burgh mechanic,  a  mason,  who  on  the  death  of  a  relative 
received  a  legacy  of  about  eighty  pounds.  He  was  no 


158  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

sooner  paid  the  money  than  he  carried  home  his  tool-chest, 
and  shoved  it  under  his  bed.  He  then  commenced  a  new 
course  of  life.  He  bought  an  elegant  suit  of  clothes,  hired 
a  hackney-coach  by  the  week,  attended  all  the  fashionable 
amusements  of  the  place,  and  regularly,  once  in  the  day, 
called  in  his  carriage  on  his  brother- workmen.  In  six  weeks 
the  whole  of  his  money  was  expended.  He  then  took  out 
his  tool-chest  from  under  his  bed,  and  returned  to  his  for- 
mer employment."  This  fellow  seems  to  have  had  a  trace 
of  humor  in  him. 

At  first  hated  as  an  intruder,  and  ridiculed  as  a  High- 
lander, Miller,  being  found  to  be  not  only  capable  of  hold- 
ing on  his  own  path,  but  superior  in  the  valued  accomplish- 
ments of  swimming,  leaping,  running,  and  wrestling,  rose 
into  something  like  popularity  among  his  fellow- workmen. 
It  was  impossible,  however,  that  between  him  and  them 
there  could  be  any  communion  ;  and,  tacitly  accepting  these 
sixteen  masons  of  Mddrie  as  representatives  of  their  class, 
he  acquired  a  profound  distrust,  sharpened  and  embittered 
by  contempt,  for  workmen  in  general.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that,  so  far  as  these  unfortunates  were  concerned,  he  gave 
working-men  a  fair  trial,  and  looked  candidly  and  boldly 
into  their  ways  and  habits.  He  permitted  himself  to  be 
carried  along  in  the  stream  when  the  masons  of  the  district 
turned  out  on  strike,  and  he  forced  himself  to  endure  one 
or  two  drear}^  hours  in  accompanying  them  to  the  foul  sub- 
terranean haunt  where  they  enjoyed  the  sport  of  badger- 
baiting.  Everything  he  beheld  in  the  character  and  con- 
duct of  these  workmen  offended  his  higher  nature.  They 
were  too  far  below  him  to  exert  any  such  influence  as  might 
have  tempted  him  to  a  fellowship  with  them.  In  an  atmos- 
phere of  profanity,  sensuality,  and  the  most  coarse  and  sor- 
did selfishness,  he  continued  an  Apollo  among  neat-herds, 
pure,  proud,  and  lofty-minded. 


159 


As  was  to  have  been  expected,  the  strike  in  which  these 
masons  engaged  seemed  to  him  unreasonable,  and  we  need 
not  doubt  that  his  view  of  the  matter  was  correct.  In  point 
of  fact,  there  was  no  redeeming  feature  in  his  experience  of 
working-men  during  his  residence  at  Niddrie  to  modify  the 
sternly  unfavorable  opinion  which  he  formed  of  the  class. 
He  concluded  that  they  were  incurably  disqualified  for  pro- 
moting their  true  interests  by  combination.  He  declared 
against  trades'  unions,  and  from  this  decision  he  never 
swerved.  Finding  that  William  Ross  was  not  only  member 
of  a  house-painters'  union,  but  one  of  the  officials  of  the 
society,  he  told  his  friend  that  his  union  would  never  benefit 
the  house-painters  as  a  class,  and  advised  him  to  resign  his 
clerkship.  He  gives  us  in  the  autobiography  the  argument 
which  he  addressed  to  Ross,  and  as  it  was  substantially  the 
argument  he  continued  to  urge  against  trades'  unions  to  the 
end  of  his  life,  it  is  as  well  to  quote  it  here  :  "  There  is  a 
want,"  he  said,  "  of  true  leadership  among  our  operatives 
in  these  combinations.  It  is  the  wilder  spirits  that  dictate 
the  conditions ;  "and,  pitching  their  demands  high,  they 
begin  usually  by  enforcing  acquiescence  among  their  com- 
panions. They  are  tyrants  to  their  fellows  ere  they  come 
into  collision  with  their  masters,  and  have  thus  an  enemy 
ii\  the  camp,  not  unwilling  to  take  advantage  of  their  sea- 
sons of  weakness,  and  prepared  to  rejoice,  though  secretly, 
mayhap,  in  their  defeats  and  reverses.  And  further,  their 
discomfiture  will  be  always  quite  certain  enough  when  sea- 
sons of  depression  come,  from  the  circumstance  that,  fixing 
their  terms  in  prosperous  times,  they  will  fix  them  with  ref- 
erence rather  to  their  present  power  of  enforcing  them,  than 
to  that  medium  line  of  fair  and  equal  adjustment  on  which 
a  conscientious  man  could  plant  his  foot  and  make  a  firm 
stand.  Men  such  as  you,  able  and  ready  to  work  in  behalf 
of  these  combinations,  will  of  course  get  the  work  to  do ; 


160  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

but  you  will  have  little  or  no  power  given  you  in  their 
direction  ;  the  direction  will  be  apparently  in  the  hands  of 
a  few  fluent  gabbers;  and  yet  even  they  will  not  be  the 
actual  directors  ;  they  will  be  but  the  exponents  and  voices 
of  the  general  mediocre  sentiment  and  inferior  sense  of  the 
mass  as  a  whole,  and  acceptable  only  so  long  as  they  give 
utterance  to  that ;  and  so,  .ultimately,  exceedingly  little 
will  be  won  in  this  way  for  working-men.  It  is  well  that 
they  should  be  allowed  to  combine,  seeing  that  combination 
is  permitted  to  those  who  employ  them ;  but  until  the  ma- 
jority of  our  working-men  of  the  south  become  very  differ- 
ent from  what  they  now  are,  —  greatly  wiser  and  greatly 
better,  —  there  will  be  more  lost  than  gained  by  their  com- 
binations. According  to  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and 
season,  the  current  will  be  at  one  period  running  in  their 
favor  against  the  masters,  and  at  another  in  favor  of  the 
masters  against  them ;  there  will  be  a  continual  ebb  and 
flow,  like  that  of  the  sea,  but  no  general  advance  ;  and  the 
sooner  that  the  like  of  you  and  I  get  out  of  the  rough  con- 
flict and  jostle  of  the  tideway,  and  set  ourselves  to  labor 
apart  on  our  own  internal  resources,  it  will  be  all  the  better 
for  us." 

Of  the  reasoning  by  which  his  correspondent  attempted 
to  rebut  these  arguments  we  have  no  sample,  but  Ross, 
though  modest  and  diffident  to  excess,  was  not  convinced, 
and  retained  his  place  in  the  union.  Of  the  force  of  Miller's 
statements,  so  far  as  they  go,  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  the 
question  is  whether  his  inference  is  not  based  on  too  narrow 
an  induction  of  facts.  That  cacklers  were  generally  the 
leaders  of  the  unions  at  the  time  he  wrote,  and  that  they 
are  too  often  the  leaders  now,  may  be  admitted.  But  he 
seems  to  assume  that  there  is  a  natural  necessity  in  this 
state  of  things,  and  to  conclude  that  no  schooling  by  expe- 
rience will  suffice  to  teach  working-men  that  the  leader- 


TRADES'  UNIONS.  161 

ship  of  the  wise  man  is  better  than  the  leadership  of  the 
fool.  Stump-oratorical  leadership  has  been  proved  long  ere 
now  to  be  no  necessity  in  the  organizations  of  working-men. 
The  charge  of  tyrannically  repressing  individual  energy  may 
still  be  brought  against  unions  ;  but  it  is  an  established  fact 
that  these  associations  have  been  the  means  of  keeping  tens 
of  thousands  of  families  out  of  the  workhouse,  and  have  dis- 
pensed to  tens  of  thousands  of  workmen  comforts  and 
necessities  in  time  of  illness.  Nearly  twenty  years  have 
elapsed  since  Miller  wrote  his  autobiography,  and  perhaps 
none  of  our  institutions  have  partaken  more  largely  in  the 
general  improvement  which  has  characterized  that  period 
than  trades'  unions.  It  is  not  impossible  that,  with  the 
comprehensive  information  before  him  which  has  been  fur- 
nished by  the  Committee  appointed  to  inquire  into  the 
subject  by  the  Social  Science  Association,  and  by  the  Royal 
Commission  which  investigated  the  question  in  the  summer 
of  1867,  he  would  have  divested  himself  more  fully  than  he 
ever  did  of  the  evil  impression  made  upon  his  mind  by  the 
abject  squad  in  which  he  had  the  lamentable  misfortune  to 
work  at  Niddrie. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  his  nature,  purified  and  elevated  by  the 
influences  of  his  training,  remained  uncontaminated  by  the 
baseness  of  his  companions.  Retaining  his  erect  human 
attitude,  he  breathed  freely  and  without  hurt  in  this  Grotto 
of  Dogs,  while  the  canine  creatures  perished.  He  had, 
besides,  the  society  not  only  of  William  Ross,  whose  friend- 
ship and  converse  were  a  perpetual  solace  to  him,  but  of  a 
cousin  and  a  few  other  rational  persons.  And  the  trees 
were  leafy,  the  skies  were  blue,  the  white  clouds  over  the 
Pentlands  radiant  in  their  stainlessness,  and,  when  the 
wind  raged  in  the  wood  behind  the  cottage  at  midnight,  he 
could  dream  that  it  was  the  roll  of  the  surge  among  the 
crags  beside  his  beloved  Cromarty.  While  his  fellow-work- 


162  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

men  in  the  shed  indulged  in  clumsy  jest  or  obscene  tattle, 
he  could  "  croon"  to  himself  the  "  Boatman's  Tale,"  getting 
into  shape  during  these  weeks.  The  poem  will  not  rank 
high  as  a  work  of  art,  but  there  were  a  few  at  that  time  in 
Edinburgh,  —  Scott,  Jeffrey,  and  Wilson  in  that  number,  — 
who  would  have  heard  with  interest  that  it  had  been  composed 
by  a  mason  lad  of  twenty-one,  who,  in  the  very  moments  of 
composition,  held  mallet  and  chisel  in  a  shed  at  Niddrie. 
The  first  two  parts  were  written  here,  the  remaining  three 
at  Cromarty.  We  shall  glance  at  the  poem. 

The  "Boatman's  Tale"  is  varied  in  scene  and  incident, 
but  the  gist  of  the  story  is  that  Walter  Hogg,  a  seafaring 
man,  beheld  a  vision  of  fiendish  creatures  who  predicted  his 
death  ;  that  this  death  took  place  as  announced,  with  appro- 
priate circumstances  of  horror  and  terror,  and  that  the  ghost 
of  Walter  appeared  to  his  friend  and  informed  him  that  the 
demons,  spite  of  their  happy  guess,  were  beings  of  no  great 
potency,  and  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  blessedness.  The 
following  stanzas  are  evidently  a  version  of  the  episode  of 
the  apparition  in  "  Jack  Grant's  Tale  "  :  — 

"  Oh !  all  was  dark  as  dungeon  gloom : 

Still  louder  swelled  the  roar 
That  rushed  above,  and  howled  behind, 

And  dashed  and  raged  before, 
When  gleamed  a  light,  shadeless  and  bright, 
On  cordage,  mast,  and  oar. 

"  Now  mock  me  not ;  our  stern  upon 

I  saw  a  lady  stand ; 
A  waxen  taper,  straight  and  tall, 

She  held  in  either  hand ; 
Her  lightly-flowing  garb  appeared 

Of  shining  silvery  green, 
Her  face  was  calmly  pale,  her  eyes 

Were  stars  of  dazzling  sheen. 


THE  BOATMAN'S  TALE.  163 

"  High  rose  our  bows  ;  when  passed  the  wave, 

Again  as  low  they  fell ; 
Yet  all  unmoved  that  lady  stood ; 
No  sailor  man,  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Had  kept  her  berth  so  well." 

The  scene  of  the  apparition  of  Walter  was  also  on  ship- 
board, but  the  vessel  had  evidently  never  been  on  the  stocks 
at  Cromarty  01*  elsewhere  :  — 

"  Her  sails  were  white  as  summer  cloud, 

Her  mast  a  boreal  ray, 
A  fiery  star  bedecked  her  prow, 
Begemmed  with  light  her  stern  below 
«  The  circling  eddies  play. 

"  Now  mark  me  :  on  her  silver  deck 

Unharmed  did  Walter  stand ; 
And  on  each  side,  and  round  behind, 
There  watched  a  seraph  band. 

"  The  rainbow  of  the  shower  ye've  seen, 

The  dazzling  sun  ye  see  : 
Oh !  orbs  and  hues  of  heaven  alone 

To  the  good  may  likened  be, 
AY  hen  they  doff  their  garb  of  fragile  clay 

To  bathe  in  eternity. 

"And  lovely  was  the  smile  that  dwelt 

On  Walter's  placid  face ; 
'Twas  —  but  'twere  vain  to  strive  to  tell, 

For  words  can  ne'er  express 
The  beauty  of  that  sinless  smile 

Of  perfect  happiness." 

On  the  subject  of  the  demons  which  had  appeared  to  him 
when  on  earth,  the  ghost  becomes  homiletic  :  — 

"  Thou  sure  hast  read  in  Heaven's  own  book 
(Oh,  search  that  volume  well !) 


164  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

How  that  of  old  the  seraph  tribes 

Grew  proud  and  did  rebel ; 
And  how  that  from  the  height  of  heaven 

To  deepest  woe  they  fell. 

"  Of  these  the  band  whose  dark  presage 

Did  sore  my  heart  dismay ; 
Yet  harmless  in  the  lonely  wood 

And  in  the  storm  are  they. 
But  ah !  right  fearful,  though  scarce  feared, 

When  in  man's  heart  they  stay. 

"  Oh,  dread  them  when  the  wanton  smiles, 

And  when  the  bowl  is  set ; 
Oh,  dread  them  when  thy  heart  is  glad, 
And  when  thy  cheeks  are  wet. 

"  But  if  on  Heaven  thy  trust  be  laid, 

To  fear  thou  dost  not  well, 
For  stronger  is  one  Christian  man 
Than  all  the  fiends  of  hell." 

The  two  last  lines  really  do  credit  to  the  mason  lad. 
One  can  imagine  him  giving  a  vigorous  stroke  or  two  with 
his  mallet  as  he  "  crooned  "  them  out. 

The  influence  of  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner  "  and  of 
Hogg's  "  Queen's  Wake"  are  traceable  in  the  "  Boatman's 
Tale." 

After  working  two  seasons  at  Niddrie,  Miller  returned  to 
Cromarty.  The  voyage  was  long,  and  in  its  course  he  com- 
posed the  verses  which  are  quoted  in  the  autobiography  as 
u  Written  at  Sea."  His  uncles,  his  cousin  George,  and 
other  friends  and  relatives,  welcomed  him  on  the  beach. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   STONE-CUTTER'S   DISEASE  —  LINES    TO   SISTER   JEANIE  — 

K I  .NEWS    HIS    FRIENDSHIP   WITH    SWANSON  AND    CORRESPONDS 

WITH    ROSS WHITES    AN     ODE     ON    GREECE    AND    OFFERS   IT 

TO    THE    "  SCOTSMAN." 


m 


'ILLER  returned  from  Edinburgh  in  unbroken 
spirits.  Whatever  the  drawbacks  of  his  Edin- 
burgh  sojourn,  he  had  never  ceased  to  be 
happy,  and  his  mood,  as  we  learn  from  an 
expression  used  in  a  letter  to  William  Ross,  had  commonly 
been  that  of  exuberant  gayety.  But  one  circumstance  con- 
nected with  his  work  while  at  Edinburgh  now  comes  into 
view,  to  which  it  is  impossible  to  refer  without  mournful- 
ness.  While  the  young  journeyman,  so  brave  of  spirit,  so 
modestly  content  with  his  exile  from  the  society  he  was 
fitted  to  adorn,  was  cutting  blocks  into  pillars  in  the  shed 
at  Niddrie,  the  seeds  of  painful  and  ineradicable  disease 
were  being  sown  in  his  constitution.  The  hardships  of  his 
apprenticeship  had  brought  him  to  the  gates  of  death,  and 
although  he  seemed  to  have  recovered  his  strength,  it  is 
probable  that  his  lungs  were  of  less  than  average  vigor 
when  he  entered  as  a  journeyman  upon  the  occupation  of 
stone-hewing.  In  two  seasons  he  became  so  deeply  affected 
with  "the  stone-cutter's  malady,"  that  he  had  to  choose 
between  throwing  himself  loose  for  a  season  from  his  em- 
ployment and  certain  death.  "So  general,"  he  says,  "  is 
the  affection,  that  few  of  our  Edinburgh  stone-cutters  pass 

165 


166  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

their  fortieth  }^ear  unscathed,  and  not  one  out  of  every  fifty 
of  their  number  ever  reaches  his  forty-fifth." 

For  the  first  month  or  two  after  his  return  to  Cromarty, 
he  deemed  it  probable  that  his  illness  had  gone  too  far  for 
recovery.  "I  still  remember"  —  these  are  his  words  — 
"  the  rather  pensive  than  sad  feeling  with  which  I  used  to 
contemplate,  at  this  time,  an  early  death,  and  the  intense 
love  of  nature  that  drew  me,  day  after  day,  to  the  beautiful 
scenery  which  surrounds  my  native  town,  and  which  I  loved 
all  the  more  from  the  consciousness  that  my  eyes  might  so 
soon  close  upon  it  forever."  It  was  at  this  time  that  he 
composed  the  lines  "  To  Jeanie."  The  little  girl  of  five,  to 
whom  he  addressed  them,  was  his  mother's  eldest  daughter 
by  her  second  marriage.  With  that  gentleness  which  ever 
characterized  him,  he  made  friends  with  Jeanie,  and  led  her 
by  the  hand  in  his  quiet  walks.  The  lines  are*  in  the  Scot- 
tish dialect,  of  which  Miller  was  never  such  a  master  as 
Burns.  They  are  not  distinguished  l)y  power  or  originality, 
but  are  interesting  as  a  reflex  of  his  mood  at  the  time,  and 
breathe  —  the  closing  stanzas  especially  —  an  unaffected 
and  artless  pathos  :  — 

11  Though  to  thee  a  spring  shall  rise, 
An'  scenes  as  fair  salute  thine  eyes ; 
An'  though,  through  many  a  cludless  day, 
My  winsome  Jean  shall  be  heartsome  and  gay  ; 

"  He  wha  grasps  thy  little  hand 
Nae  langer  at  thy  side  shall  stand, 
Nor  o'er  the  flower-besprinkled  brae 
Lead  thee  the  lownest  an'  the  bonniest  way. 

"  Dost  thou  see  yon  yard  sae  green, 
Spreckled  wi'  many  a  mossy  stane  ? 
A  few  short  weeks  o'  pain  shall  fly, 
An'  asleep  in  that  bed  shall  thy  puir  brither  lie. 


JOHN    SWANSON.  167 

"  Then  thy  mither's  tears  awhile 
May  chide  thy  joy  an'  damp  thy  smile ; 
But  sune  ilk  grief  shall  wear  awa', 
And  I'll  be  forgotten  by  ane  an'  by  a*. 

"  Dinna  think  the  thought  is  sad ; 
Life  vexed  me  aft,  but  this  mak's  glad; 
When  cauld  my  heart  and  closed  my  e'e, 
Bonny  shall  the  dreams  o'  my  slumbers  be." 

But  he  is  young,  and  though  his  lungs  have  been  perma- 
nently and  incurably  injured,  the  energy  of  his  constitu- 
tion, aided  by  repose  and  by  peace  of  mind,  is  sufficient  for 
the  present  to  conquer  the  disease.  With  returning  health 
return  his  interest  in  life  and  his  intellectual  ambition.  He 
renews  his  friendship  with  John  Swanson,  who  had  recently 
abandoned  a  growing  business  in  Cromarty  with  a  view  to 
devoting  himself  to  the  work  of  the  Christian  ministry  in 
connection  with  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  opens  a  corre- 
spondence with  William  Ross.  Swanson  who,  six  years 
previously,  had  been  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  he 
finds  improved  in  all  respects.  John  had  thrown  off  a 
habit  of  sarcasm  which  formerly  disguised  his  kindness  of 
heart,  and  "  his  judgment,"  says  Miller  to  Baird,  "  had 
attained  a  strength  and  niceness  of  edge  which  I  had  not 
before  found  equalled."  In  a  few  hours  after  they  met,  the 
friends  were  more  closely  knit  in  the  bonds  of  amity  than 
they  had  ever  been.  ' '  After  parting  with  him  for  the  even- 
ing," says  Miller  again,  "my  spirits  were  so  exhilarated 
that  I  felt  as  if  intoxicated." 

While  he  worked  as  a  stone-cutter,  Swanson  had  been 
preparing  himself  by  a  regular  education  for  the  duties  of  a 
learned  profession.  "I  found  my  friend,"  writes  Miller, 
"  to  be  one  of  the  few  persons  who  become  wise  in  propor- 
tion as  they  grow  learned."  He  adds  the  following  charac- 
teristic estimate  of  the  effect  of  formal  culture  upon  a  cer- 


168  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

tain  order  of  minds :  "  My  acquaintance  with  men  of 
education,  though  not  very  extensive,  is  yet  sufficiently  so 
to  convince  me  that  the  people  whose  capacities  average 
between  mediocrity  and  the  lower  extreme  of  intellect  are 
rather  injured  than  benefited  by  being  made  scholars.  Men 
of  this  kind,  when  bred  up  to  a  common  mechanical  profes- 
sion, are  generally  quiet  and  unpretending,  useful  to  society 
and  possessed  of  an  almost  instinctive  knowledge  of  those 
rules  of  conduct,  an  attention  to  which  makes  easy  the  pas- 
sage through  life.  As  scholars,  however,  they  frequently 
bear  a  character  much  the  reverse  of  this.  I  have  met  with 
such  newly  set  loose  from  college,  and  have  taken  an 
inventory  of  their  intellectual  stock  :  A  smattering  of 
Greek  and  Latin  ;  an  affected  admiration  of  writings  whose 
merits  they  have  neither  taste  nor  judgment  to  appreciate  ; 
a  few  confused  philosophical  notions ;  a  few  broken  ideas, 
the  imperfect  transcripts,  not  of  things,  but  of  other  ideas  ; 
an  ability  of  conveying  trite  thoughts  in  common  language ; 
a  pride  that  gloats  enraptured  over  these  attainments  ;  and 
a  sincere  contempt  for  the  class  of  people  whom  they  deem 
the  ignorant.  Parnell's  beautiful  description  of  a  lake  when 
perfectly  calm  and  when  ruffled  by  a  pebble  illustrates 
happily  the  minds  of  men  of  true  and  of  fictitious  learning. 
The  sensoriums  of  the  former  are  mirrors  of  the  universe  ; 
those  of  the  latter  present  only  scenes  of  broken  fragments." 
Swanson,  like  most  young  men  of  abilitj^  who  study  in 
the  Scottish  colleges,  was  an  eager  metaphysician,  immersed 
in  the  study  of  Locke,  Hume,  Berkeley,  and  Reid.  On  the 
lighter  departments  of  literature  he  looked  with  indifference, 
tempered  by  disdain.  Miller's  pursuits  and  preferences 
were  of  precisely  the  opposite  character.  He  was  addicted 
to  poetry,  and  thought  metaphysics  dry  and  displeasing. 
"  In  a  few  months,  however,  he  (Swanson)  had  become  an 
admirer  of  the  elegances  of  composition,  and  I  (Miller)  of 


WILLIAM    ROSS.  169 

metaphysical  acuteness.  He  perused  the  '  Paradise  Lost ' 
of  Milton  with  astonishment,  I  the  Essays  of  Hume  with 
admiration." 

Strongly  contrasted  with  the  vigorous,  practical  Swan- 
son,  is  Miller's  other  friend,  of  whom  we  have  already  heard 
so  much,  William  Ross.  If  in  any  one  of  his  early  asso- 
ciates there  was  a  ray  of  genius,  it  was  in  this  hapless 
youth.  What  he  wanted  was  at  bottom  nothing  else  but 
health.  He  blamed  himself,  and  his  friends  blamed  him, 
for  indolence  ;  but  it  was  not  indolence,  it  was  the  lassitude 
of  failing  life,  the  weariness  of  approaching  death,  that  pal- 
sied his  energies.  Keen  and  clear  in  his  intellectual  per- 
ceptions, he  had  a  half-consciousness  of  this,  but  he  did  not 
know  it  well  enough  to  silence  his  self-upbraidings.  He 
told  Miller  that  he,  Ross,  lacked  the  stamina  which  would 
one  day  raise  his  friend  above  the  crowd,  and  regarded  his 
own  efforts  with  melancholy  contempt.  But  for  the  sympa- 
thetic tenderness  of  Hugh's  nature,  there  could  have  been 
no  friendship  between  him  and  Ross ;  the  men  were  very 
different.  "I  need  not  remind  you,"  writes  Hugh,  from 
Cromarty,  in  May,  1825,  "  that,  tliough  ever  desirous  of 
each  other's  company,  we  were  not  always  very  happy 
together.  There  was  so  much  whim  on  the  one  side,  and 
so  little  philosophy  on  the  other,  —  the  one  was  so  low- 
spirited,  the  other  so  madly-spirited,  —  that  not  husband 
and  wife  (and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal)  could  agree 
worse  together." 

Miller  felt  the  genuine  worth  of  Ross,  appreciated  his 
fine  qualities,  and  with  a  beautiful  assiduity  of  friendship 
strove  to  woo  him  from  his  listlessness  and  his  depression. 
The  poor  fellow  struggled  fitfully,  but  in  vain.  "  O  Indo- 
lence ! "  Ross  exclaims  in  one  of  his  letters,  "thou  demon 
who  hast  ever  had  such  power  over  me  (never  more  than 
now),  accept  the  heartiest,  bitterest  curses  of  thy  victim. 


170  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

Unnerved  by  thy  baneful  influences,  I  have  loitered  in  the 
dark  valley  of  obscurity  until  the  day  of  life  is  far  spent ; 
until  clouds  have  arisen  and  obscured  the  bright  vistas 
through  which  I  once  hoped  my  path  would  lie.  I  am  even 
losing  the  little  ground  I  have  gained.  I  am  sliding  back- 
wards. The  want  of  natural  abilities,  the  want  of  a  proper 
education,  the  want  of  a  rational  confidence,  —  each  of 
these  throw  rough,  steep  obstacles  in  the  path  of  many  a 
poor  sojourner ;  but  when  thou,  O  fiend !  seizest  the  will 
and  makest  it  thine  own,  we  struggle  no  longer  against 
these  obstacles.  No  !  we  sit  down  at  thy  feet  and  merely 
think  of  them.  But  why  address  the  fiend  ?  "  In  a  more 
pensive  mood,  he  contrasts  his  own  situation  with  that  of 
Miller :  "  I  can  scarce  say  I  desire  anything.  Here  I  live 
as  an  exile,  without  a  friend  or  a  scene  near  me  that  I  love, 
without  anything  to  wish  or  enjoy.  How  grateful  ought  you 
to  be  to  the  great  Benefactor  who  has  placed  you  in  a  situ- 
ation so  truly  delightful !  I  can  in  imagination  picture  you 
at  work  on  the  chapel  brae,  where  everything  around  you 
is  so  still,  so  fresh,  so  beautiful.  I  can  see  green  woods 
and  yellow  fields  ;  a  little,  quiet  town  at  a  convenient  dis- 
tance, with  the  blue  waves  half  encircling  it,  and  the  blue 
hills  peeping  over  it.  Did  I  say  I  had  sunk  into  such  an 
apathy  as  to  be  too  indifferent  to  desire  anything  ?  If  so, 
I  have  spoken  amiss,  for  there  are  things  which  I  can  still 
desire.  Did  I  say  you  ought  to  be  grateful  to  the  Giver  of  . 
all  good?  Alas  !  discontented,  restless  thing  that  I  am,  I 
have  much  cause  for  being  grateful  also.'"  He  has  a  deep 
affection  for  Miller,  and  a  pride  in  his  friend.  "  You  com- 
plain, my  friend,  of  melancholy.  Had  I  such  a  heart  as 
yours,  I  think  I  could  be  happy  even  in  grief.  It  is  of  a 
gentler  and  more  delicate  cast  than  I  had  imagined,  and  I 
am  glad  of  it." 

Occasionally  Ross  introduces  a  similitude  so  apt  and  so 


WILLIAM    ROSS.  171 

beautiful  that  we  feel  keenly  how  real,  how  fine,  if  slender, 
was  his  vein  of  genius.  Remarking  that  all  who  knew  him 
think  well  of  him,  he  proceeds,  with  his  usual  self-deprecia- 
tion, to  account  for  the  fact :  "  All  these  men  only  see  me 
in  part,  and  (for  such  is  the  nature  of  all  earthly  things, 
when  viewed  from  a  distance)  what  they  do  see  of  me  ap- 
pears other  than  what  it  is.  The  clouds  which  so  gloriously 
encircle  the  setting  sun,  and  whose  beauty  in  description  no 
comparison  can  heighten,  are  but  wreaths  of  watery  vapor  ; 
and  the  distant  hill,  though  its  azure  hue  vies  in  depth  and 
beauty  with  that  of  the  cloudless  firmament,  is  a  mass  of 
rock  and  earth,  half  covered  with  a  stunted  vegetation. 
What  am  I  in  reality  ?  What  is  my  heart  ?  A  cold,  vicious 
thing,  devoid  of  energy,  affection,  and  peace."  This  is  a 
far  deeper  thought  than  Thomson's  about  the  enchantment 
of  distance.  Mr.  Ruskin  expands  what  is  essentially  the 
same  idea  as  the  poor  consumptive  house-painter's  into  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  passages  in  his  works  ;  *  but  the  ap- 

*  "  Are  not  all  natural  things,  it  maybe  asked,  as  lovely  near  as  far 
away?  Nay,  not  so.  Look  at  the  clouds,  and  watch  the  delicate 
sculpture  of  their  alabaster  sides,  and  the  rounded  lustre  of  their 
magnificent  rolling.  They  were  meant  to  be  beheld  far  away  ;  they 
were  shaped  for  their  place,  high  above  your  head ;  approach  them, 
and  they  fuse  into  vague  mists,  or  whirl  away  in  fierce  fragments  of 
thunderous  vapor.  Look  at  the  crest  of  the  Alp,  from  the  far-away 
plains  over  which  its  light  is  cast,  whence  human  souls  have  com- 
munion with  it  by  their  myriads.  The  cbild  looks  up  to  it  in  the 
dawn,  and  the  husbandman  in  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  and 
the  old  man  in  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  it  is  to  them  all  as  the 
celestial  city  on  the  world's  horizon ;  dyed  with  the  depth  of  heaven, 
and  clothed  with  the  calm  of  eternity.  There  was  it  set,  for  holy 
dominion,  by  Him  who  marked  for  the  sun  his  journey,  and  bade  the 
moon  know  her  going  down.  It  was  built  for  its  place  in  the  far-off 
sky ;  approach  it,  and,  as  the  sound  of  the  voice  sof  man  dies  away 
about  its  foundation,  and  the  tide  of  human  life,  shattered  upon  the 
vast  aerial  shore,  is  at  last  met  by  the  Eternal  '  Here  shall  thy  waves 


172  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

propriate  and  beautiful  application  of  it  to  the  judgment 
of  human  character  belongs  to  Ross  alone. 

Still  finer,  perhaps,  is  the  following  :  "  The  virtuous  man 
has  not  only  the  approbation  of  others,  but  his  own.  It  is 
said  by  philosophers  that  the  air  we  breathe  would  be  a 
most  oppressive  burden  to  us  did  it  not  penetrate  the  pores 
of  our  bodies,  and,  by  filling  every  cavity  within,  render  us 
unconscious  to  the  weight  which  presses  from  without. 
Thus  the  self-approbation  of  the  virtuous  man  renders  the 
approbation  of  others  an  invigorating,  refreshing  thing ; 
but  without  it  (I  speak  from  experience)  the  voice  of  praise 
appears  a  cruel  irony,  —  a  weight  which  bends  the  con- 
sciously unworthy  soul  to  the  very  dust."  Poor  fellow ! 
He  was  so  good  and  so  gifted  that  all  who  knew  him  loved 
and  admired  him ;  and  so  gentle-hearted,  so  modest,  and 
self-accusing,  that  even  their  admiration  gave  him  pain.  In 
the  same  letter  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  country  about 
Perth  :  "  The  scenery  about  Perth  is  exquisitely  beautiful. 
The  day  upon  which  I  first  came  within  sight  of  it  was 
calm  and  pleasant,  and,  then  in  its  decline,  was  clothing 
the  woods,  hills,  and  fields  with  a  yellow  light.  The  Tay, 
speckled  with  boats  and  small  vessels,  like  a  vein  of  silver 
winded  through  the  landscape.  The  distant  town,  half 
mixing  with  an  azure  cloud  which  rested  above  it,  seemed 
(to  use  the  words  of  my  favorite  poet) 

"  A  town  of  fairy-land,  a  thing  of  earth  and  sky," 

while  the  aerial  hue  of  the  distant  hills  spake  of  the  skill  of 
nature's  painting, —  a  hue  evidently  intended  to  sort  with, 

be  stayed,'  the  glory  of  its  aspect  fades  into  blanched  fearfulness ; 
its  purple  walls  are  rent  into  grisly  rocks,  its  silver  fretwork  sad- 
dened into  wasting  snow ;  the  storm-brands  of  ages  are  on  its  breast, 
the  ashes  of  its  own  ruin  lie  solemnly  on  its  white  raiment."  —  Stones 
of  Venice. 


ODE    ON    GREECE.  173 

to  melt  into  the  hues  of  the  firmament.  The  sun  lingered 
a  while  on  the  top  of  his  hill,  as  if  admiring  the  scene,  and 
then  sunk  beneath  it.  For  a  time  the  golden  clouds,  like 
the  ministers  of  a  good  king  deceased,  strove  to  be  what  he 
had  been ;  but  the  attempt  was  above  their  power ;  they 
languished,  and  the  scene  became  duller  and  blacker,  until 
at  length  the  gray  mantle  of  evening  was  spread  over  it." 
Are  there  not  tones  and  touches  here  of  what  Mr.  Carlyle 
calls  nature's  "  masterpiece  and  darling,  the  poetic  soul"? 
That  such  a  soul  should  have  been  placed  amid  the  desolate 
circumstances  of  William  Ross  —  hopelessly  poor,  hope- 
lessly ill  —  suggests  some  of  the  deepest  questionings  in 
the  stern  mystery  of  human  life. 

It  was  in  September  of  1826  that  Hugh  Miller  made  his 
first  attempt  to  address  his  countrymen  in  the  columns  of  a 
newspaper.  He  wrote  an  "  Ode  on  Greece,"  and  commis- 
sioned William  Ross  to  hand  it  into  the  office  of  the  "  Scots- 
man." A  note  was  at  the  same  time  addressed  to  the 
editor.  "  The  enclosed  Ode,"  writes  Hugh,  with  the  anx- 
ious dignity  of  the  young  author,  "  was  written  at  a  time 
when  the  cause  of  the  Greeks  appeared  desperate,  by  one 
who  has  looked  upon  their  glorious  struggle  for  indepen- 
dence with  a  wish  and  a  sigh.  Had  his  powers  of  mind 
equalled  his  feelings  in  strength  or  vivacity,  his  poem 
would  rouse  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet ;  but,  alas  !  you  will 
soon  perceive  that  it  displays  little  of  the  art  —  perhaps 
little  of  the  spirit  —  of  the  poet.  He  who  can  only  court 
the  Muses  in  the  few  intervals  of  rest  which  a  laborious 
occupation  affords,  must  be  indeed  fortunate  if  he  prove  a 
favored  suitor."  The  "  Ode  "  is  hardly  above  the  average 
standard  of  juvenile  compositions,  though  here  and  there  a 
vigorous  note  breaks  through,  echoed  from  Byron.  The 
poet  has  no  mercy  on  the  doctrine  of  non-intervention,  and 
addresses  his  own  country  in  tones  of  haughty  rebuke. 


174  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"  Alas  for  Greece  !  but  not  alone 

For  wretched  Greece  the  tears  shall  flow ; 
Adorned  by  glory's  brightest  zone, 

Her  fame  shall  soothe  her  woe. 
But  thou.  proud  home  of  wealth,  for  thee 
Heavy  the  patriot's  heart  must  be. 
Say,  dark  of  spirit,  hast  thou  sold 
The  souls  of  men  for  sordid  gold, 
And  plied  each  art  of  niggard  trade 
"When  hapless  patriots  toiled  and  bled, 
And  filled  thy  coffers  o'er  the  dead?  " 

He  exhorts  Greece  to  bestir  herself,  and  is  very  angry  with 
the  Turks. 

"  Rouse  thee,  O  Greece  !  a  fearful  sign 

Is  pictured  on  the  awful  sky ; 
Ruin  awaits  the  Moslem  line, 
Mahomet's  faith  shall  die  ! 
The  falchion  cleaves  the  turbaned  head, 

The  Koran's  darkened  page  is  torn, 
And  Turkey's  streams  are  rolling  red 
With  blood  of  the  unborn. 

Alas  for  hapless  Greece  !  again 

The  dark  clouds  gather  round  her  head ; 
Her  Byron's  lyre  was  swept  in  vain, 

In  vain  her  children  bled. 
But  vengeance  loads  the  coming  gale, 

And  ere  the  tyrant  grasps  the  rod, 
His  soul  shall  shrink,  his  strength  shall  fail, 

Beneath  the  brand  of  God !  " 

How  this  trumpet-blast  might  have  influenced  the  Greeks 
we  cannot  tell.  The  editor  of  the  "  Scotsman"  proved  a 
Trojan  on  the  occasion,  and  Miller's  Ode  was  returned  upon 
his  hands. 

Not  long  after,  Hugh  refers  to  the  subject  in  a  letter  to 
Boss,  and  bravely  decides  that  the  piece  might  not  have 


SELF-SEVERITY.  175 

been  worth  publishing  after  all.  "  Perhaps  "  —  he  thus  ex- 
presses his  philosophical  resignation — "my  Ode  was  ill- 
timed  ;  perhaps  its  merits  are  of  so  doubtful  a  kind  that  no 
one  except  nr^self  can  discover  them  ;  perhaps  —  but  I  have 
said  enough.  Why  should  I  be  a  seeker  after  fame  ?  Fame 
is  not  happiness ;  it  is  not  virtue.  Bad  men  enjoy  it ; 
wretched  men  attain  it.  It  rewarded  the  deeds  of  Lrostra- 
tus  as  largely  as  those  of  Leonidas."  With  equal  judi- 
ciousness and  self-severity,  he  touches  upon  his  efforts  in 
the  way  of  mental  improvement.  "It  is  the  remark  of  a 
celebrated  writer  that  without  long  and  serious  application 
no  man,  however  great  his  natural  abilities,  can  attain  the 
art  of  writing  correctly.  At  one  time  I  flattered  myself 
with  the  hope  of  becoming  a  correct  writer ;  and,  with  the 
intention  of  applying  myself  sedulously  to  the  study  of  the 
English  language,  I  collected  several  works  that  treated  of 
grammar  and  composition.  Besides  these  helps  I  also 
calculated  upon  the  assistance  of  my  friend,  John  Swanson. 
But  though  repeatedly  warned  by  experience,  I  did  not 
calculate  upon  that  volatility  of  mind  which  I  have  ever 
found  as  difficult  to  fix  upon  any  Single  object,  whatever 
may  be  its  importance,  as  to  fix  quicksilver  on  an  inclined 
plane  ;  and  now  I  can  look  back  upon  my  half  attempt  at 
becoming  an  English  scholar,  just  as  I  can  upon  every 
other  speculation  in  which  I  have  been  engaged.  I  see  a 
fine  foundation  laid,  but  no  superstructure.  I  still  propose, 
however,  to  become  a  correct  writer,  but  it  must  be  in  the 
manner  in  which  Cowley  became  a  grammarian.  That 
ingenious  poet,  speaking  of  himself,  says :  '  I  was  so 
much  an  enemy  to  all  constraint,  that  my  masters  could 
never  prevail  on  me,  by  any  persuasion  or  encouragement, 
to  learn  without  book  the  common  rules  of  grammar,  in 
which  they  dispensed  with  me  alone,  because  they  found  I 


176  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

made  a  shift  to  do  the  usual  exercise  out  of  my  own  read- 
ing and  observation.' " 

In  a  letter  written  about  the  same  time,  we  have  sundry 
remarks" on  literary  subjects.  "  You  ask  me  whether  I  now 
read  Byron  or  Ovid.  I  reply  in  the  affirmative.  I  do  read 
every  work  of  ability  that  falls  in  my  way,  whatever  the 
opinions  or  intentions  of  their  authors  were  ;  but  in  reading 
these  works  I  always  strive  to  keep  in  view  certain  leading 
truths,  which  serve  as  tests  to  discover  and  separate  soph- 
istry from  argument,  and  as  lights  to  dissipate  those  shades 
of  obliquity  which  are  cast  over  virtue,  both  by  its  artful 
enemies  and  injudicious  friends.  At  the  birth  of  our  Sa- 
viour, the  shrine  of  Apollo  and  Delphi  spake  no  longer  with 
its  mysterious  organs  of  what  was,  or  of  what  was  to  come. 
He  who  was  the  truth  had  come  into  the  world,  and  every 
oracle  of  lies  had  become  dumb.  At  His  death,  the  veil  of 
the  temple  was  rent  in  twain,  and  truth  was  no  longer  a 
mystery.  Thus,  by  His  power,  that  which  was  false,  and 
that  which  was  true,  became  alike  evident.  The  Gospels 
are  still  in  our  hands,  and  they,  like  Him  of  whom  they 
speak,  silence  falsehood  and  discover  truth.  He  who  takes 
up  the  writings  of  Byron,  Ovid,  or  Moore,  or  any  of  the 
many  writings  of  those  men  who  have  so  fearfully  misap- 
plied the  talents  which  God  gave  them,  will,  if  impressed 
with  a  deep  sense  of  the  true  religion,  run  no  risk  of  being 
allured  and  led  astray  by  the  blandishments  of  vice.  But 
what  can  induce,  it  may  be  asked,  a  man  of  religious  prin- 
ciple to  peruse  a  volume  in  which  he  must,  of  necessity, 
come  in  contact  with  the  allurements  of  vice  ;  in  which  all 
that  he  loves  will  be  made  to  appear  in  its  least  lovely  form, 
all  that  he  hates  or  has  to  fear  in  its  most  engaging  and 
dangerous  ?  To  this  I  would  reply  that  it  is  no  very  hon- 
orable safety  which  is  procured  by  flight.  Why  should  a 
man  who  stands  upon  the  advantage  ground  of  truth  and 


READS   HUME,    BYRON,    ETC.  177 

virtue  yield  to  the  emissaries  of  vice  and  error  ?  May  he 
not,  as  did  Gideon  the  son  of  Joash,  descend  into  the  camp 
of  these  Midianites,  and  listen  to  the  ominous  visions  which 
perplex  them,  or  examine  the  unsocial  sophistries  upon 
which  they  have  founded  their  systems,  or  expose  the  futil- 
ity of  the  vain  beliefs  upon  which  they  have  founded  their 
hopes?  But,  to  speak  in  plainer  language, 'there  are  many 
advantages  which  may  be  derived  from  a  real  philosophical 
perusal  of  the  writings  of  these  men.  Many  of  them  were 
endowed  with  extraordinary  talents,  were  the  friends  of 
civil  liberty,  and  excelled  in  the  art  of  reasoning  and  of 
writing  well.  I  cannot  read  the  Essays  of  Hume,  without 
seeing  the  necessity  of  entrenching  myself  behind  the  bul- 
warks of  Christianity.  All  those  outworks  which  are  raised 
in  every  direction  around  these  bulwarks,  some  of  them  by 
mistaken  good,  and  others  by  designing  bad  men,  must  be 
forsaken ;  for  I  find  I  have  to  do  with  a  foe  who  can  lay 
bare  the  designs  and  demolish  the  sophistries  of  the  de- 
signing priest,  who  can  crush  at  one  blow  the  boasted  illu- 
minations of  the  enthusiast  and  fanatic.  But  when  I  retire 
within  the  citadel  of  Christianity,  I  see  from  it  the  ingenious 
philosopher  becoming  a  sophist,  the  powerful  warrior  as- 
sailing a  rock  of  adamant  with  a  battering  ram  of  straw  . 
.  .  The  '  Don  Juan '  of  Byron  is  an  extraordinary  poem, 
in  my  opinion  ten  times  more  so  than  the  '  Hudibras '  of 
Butler.  It  displays  a  thorough  knowledge  of  human  char- 
acter, —  of  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  mankind." 

"Feb.  20. —  Since  I  conversed  with  you  I  have  toiled 
and  played,  I  have  ate  and  drank,  walked  and  slept ;  I 
have  been  happy  and  indifferent,  and  —  no,  not  sad.  And 
now  I  am  again  with  my  friend ;  draw  then  your  chair  a 
little  nearer,  and  I  shall  tell  you  of  my  toils  and  amuse- 
ments. I  have  been  quarrying  at  Navity  shore  stones  for 
a  house,  which  my  cousin  Robert  Ross  is  going  to  build. 


178  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

and  with  my  uncles  and  cousins  have  brought  home  several 
boat-loads  of  them.  You  remember  Navity,  with  its  rough, 
bold  shore,  steep  precipices  and  sloping  braes,  so  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  there  are  few  places  where  he  who  labors 
is  so  ready  to  forget  that  labor  is  a  curse.  Nor  need  I  tell 
you  how  pleasant  I  found  it  to  sweep  on  the  calm  wave  in 
a  fine  frosty  morning,  past  the  rude  bays  and  steep  prom- 
ontories of  the  Gallow  Hill,  or  how  grand  and  awful  the 
wide  caverns,  rugged  precipices,  and  wooded  brow  of  that 
hill  appeared  when  our  boat  crept  round  its  shores,  heavy 
laden  in  a  clear  moonshine  night."  His  amusements  are 
principally  verse-making  and  solitary  walks.  He  proceeds 
to  describe  one  of  the  latter.  "  I  left  the  house  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  passed  along  the  shore,  climbed  the 
rock  at  the  dropping  cave,  descended  again,  and  in  half  an 
hour  from  my  setting  out  found  myself  at  the  Doocot  Cave. 
I  have  attempted  a  description  of  this  cave  and  the  sur- 
rounding scenery  in  my  '  Tale  of  Youth.'  I  next  -struck 
a  light,  kindled  my  torch,  and  proceeded  to  explore  the 
cavern.  Its  depth  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  its.  height 
varies  from  eighteen  to  twenty.  Its  sides  are  incrusted  by 
a  beautiful  white  stone,  resembling  marble,  and  formed  by 
springs  of  a  petrifying  quality  which  ooze  through  its  roof, 
while  its  floor  is  composed  of  a  damp,  mouldy  earth,  strewn 
over  with  fragments  of  rock.  In  a  clear  day,  from  the 
height  and  straightness  of  the  cavern,  the  light  penetrates 
to  its  inmost  recess,  but  as  yester  evening  was  dull  and 
cloudy,  fifty  feet  from  its  entrance  was  dark  as  midnight ; 
even  the  rays  of  my  torch  seemed  lost  in  the  gloom.  As  I 
proceeded,  however,  and  as  the  sides  of  the  cavern  ap- 
proached each  other,  arid  its  roof  lowered,  the  light  ap- 
peared to  gather  strength.  When  I  had  gained  the  extreme 
end,  I  tied  my  torch  to  a  pillar  of  stone  which  depended 
like  an  icicle  from  the  roof,  and  then  groped  my  way  back 


THE    DOOCOT    CAVE.  179 

to  its  entrance,  from  whence  I  contemplated  the  scene. 
Have  you  not  observed  in  a  stormy  night,  when  the  sky  is 
covered  with  clouds,  how  bright  and  clear  the  stars  which 
look  down  through  a  small  opening  appear  ?  Only  imagine 
these  clouds  darker,  and  one  solitary  star  looking  through 
them  brighter  than  you  have  ever  seen  cloud  or  star,  and 
you  will  have  some  idea  of  the  appearance  which  the  Doo- 
cot  Cave  presented  when  my  torch  twinkled  in  its  deepest 
recess." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

POEMS  ADDRESSED  TO  ROSS  -  SERIOUS  THOUGHTS  -  CORRE- 
SPONDENCE WITH  SWANSON  -  FREAKISH  HUMOR  -  DE- 
SCENDS INTO  THE  TOMB  OF  THE  URQUHARTS  -  IS  CATE- 
CHIZED BY  MR.  STEWART  -  WRITING  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR  - 
A  PROSELYTIZING  BORE  -  CORRESPONDENCE  ON  RELIGION. 


of  Miller's   early  poems  are  addressed  to  Wil- 
liam Ross,  the  one  entitled  an  Ode,  the  other  an 
Epistle.     Neither  is  of  importance,  but  in  the  Epis- 
tle, written  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  occur  the  follow- 
ing lines,  part  of  an  enumeration  of  the  joys  of  wealth  :  — 

"  The  power  o'  aiding  honest  men 

Should  be  itseP  a  heaven  o'  pleasure." 

These,  I  think,  are  worthy  of  Burns. 

The  Epistle  is  sad  throughout.  It  is  Miller's  design,  as 
he  informs  Ross  in  prose,  to  give  him  a  "  faithful  picture" 
of  his  mind  "  when  overcast  by  those  clouds  of  constitu- 
tional melancholy  that  obscure  it  so  often." 

"  The  lover's  joy,  the  star  o'  fame, 

The  Muse,  the  bliss  that  waits  upon  her, 
The  ray  that  gilds  the  warrior's  name, 
The  tags  and  toys  o'  boastful  honor, 
Are  shades  that  on  the  calm,  smooth  wave 

Shine  bonny  as  the  northern  streamer  ; 
But  they  fade  and  die  when  the  wild  blasts  rave, 
And  leave  to  woe  the  wakened  dreamer. 

180 


POEMS   ADDRESSED    TO    ROSS.  181 

"  There  reigned  a  king  in  ancient  time, 

The  wisest  ever  swayed  a  sceptre ; 
His  deep,  sly  saws,  and  songs  sublime, 

Shine  bright  on  the  fair  page  o'  Scripture. 
And  he,  the  wyliest  sure  o'  men, 

For  bliss  tried  ilka  scheme  o'  living, 
But  he  found  at  length  his  labors  vain, 

And  life  a  scene  o'  crime  and  grieving." 

Light,  however,  breaks  through.  In  a  tone  of  earnestness 
which  contrasts  strongly  with  his  references  to  religion  in 
his  earlier  productions,  prose  or  verse,  he  exclaims  :  — 

"  Hark!  wherefore  bursts  that  rapturous  swell? 

Why  are  the  night's  dark  shadows  riven? 
*  A  Saviour  sought  the  depths  o'  hell, 
That  such  as  thee  might  rise  to  heaven.' 

"  My  cares,  my  hopes,  my  wishes  climb 

To  reach  that  Friend  who  reigns  above  me ; 
Truth's  best  perfection  dwells  in  him, 
.And  he  has  sworn  to  aid  and  love  me." 

The  composition  of  these  stanzas  is  connected  with  a 
revolution  which  has  been  silently  transacting  itself  in  the 
mind  and  character  of  Hugh  Miller,  and  which  will  come 
under  our  notice  as  we  review  his  correspondence  of  this 
period  with  John  Swanson. 

We  have  seen  that  from  his  childhood  he  had  displayed 
a  fine  natural  disposition ;  that  he  was  fearless,  unselfish, 
affectionate.  Of  the  baser  passions,  avarice  and  cruelty,  he 
never  exhibited  a  trace ;  and  of  that  less  ignoble  passion 
which  has  frequently  coexisted  with  high  and  generous  at- 
tributes of  character,  but  which  has  frequently  also,  as  in 
Mirabeau,  Burns,  and  Byron,  made  wreck  of  the  palaces 
of  the  soul,  he  was  singularly  destitute.  The  extrava- 
gances of  his  boyhood,  —  the  pranks  of  a  wild,  free,  gipsy- 


182  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

ing  life,  —  reaching  their  climax  of  wickedness  in  robbery 
of  an  orchard  and  rebellion  against  an  uncle,  would  not  be 
regarded  even  by  a  morose  school  of  moralists  as  portend- 
ing a  vicious  manhood.  The  lessons  which  he  received 
from  Uncle  James  and  Uncle  Sandy  had  sunk  deep  into  his 
heart,  even  when  he  chafed  under  their  inculcation ;  and 
while  he  passed  through  the  severely  salutary  discipline  of 
his  apprenticeship,  his  feelings  towards  those  admirable 
men  had  gradually  settled  into  a  profound  and  filial  regard. 
As  we  mark  him,  therefore,  among  his  comrades  of  the 
bothy  and  the  shed,  we  are  struck  by  the  moral  nobleness, 
the  virgin  purity,  which  constantly  attend  him,  and  which 
render  him  undeniable  by  the  foulness  amid  which  he 
moves.  But  religion  had  not  become  the  supreme  influence 
in  his  mind ;  he  was  still  —  he  knew  it  himself,  and  his 
friends  knew  it  —  "  in  the  camp  of  the  unconverted." 

We  saw  that,  on  returning  from  Edinburgh,  he  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  John  Swanson,  and  that  the  closest 
friendship  was  soon  established  between  them.  Swanson, 
as  we  said,  had  recently  thrown  up  a  growing  business  in 
Cromarty,  had  resolved  to  become  a  preacher  of  the  gospel, 
and  had  proceeded,  shortly  after  the  renewal  of  his  intimacy 
with  Miller,  to  Aberdeen,  in  order  to  pursue  his  studies. 
His  robust  and  healthful  nature  was  aglow  with  the  impas- 
sioned ardor  of  first  faith  and  first  love.  "  Oh !  "  he  ex- 
claims to  Miller,  in  a  letter  dated  Aberdeen,  July,  1825,  "  I 
pant  after  that  time  when  I  may  be  fully  assured  that  you 
are  travelling  towards  Zion !  Oh,  there  is  much  encour- 
agement held  out  to  us  in  the  Scriptures  to  come  to  Christ ! 
His  love,  how  amazing  !  The  subject  has  an  effect  on  my 
feelings  ;  but  if  I  would  speak  of  it,  I  feel  my  tongue  tied. 
Angels  cannot  do  justice  to  his  love  ;  how  infinitely  short, 
then,  must  we  come !  How  forcible  does  that  expression 
appear  to  those  who  have  considered  it  aright :  '  It  passeth 


CORRESPONDS   WITH    SWANSON.  183 

knowledge  '  !  I  cannot  bid  him  God-speed  who  would  deny 
His  willingness  to  save  us.  No !  the  more  I  consider  the 
subject,  the  more  am  I  persuaded  that  he  delighteth  in 
mercy ! " 

There  was  doubtless  an  answer  to  this  from  Miller,  but  I 
have  not  found  it.  In  Sept.,  1825,  Swanson  again  writes, 
and  still,  apparently  in  response  to  hesitation  exhibited,  or 
objections  started,  by  his  correspondent,  insists  upon  the 
plenitude  of  the  divine  mercy.  "  He  is  described  as  hold- 
ing out  His  hands  all  day  long  to  a  rebellious  and  gainsaying 
people,  and  shall  we  impiously  dare  to  say  that  He  is  unwil- 
ling to  receive  any?  'Tis  true  there  are  mysterious  doc- 
trines in  the  Bible;  'tis  true,  election,  etc.,  are  spoken  of; 
but,  if  I  know  aught  of  the  spirit  of  the  Scriptures,  these 
were  never  meant  to  keep  a  returning  sinner  back  from  God. 
Indeed,  I  presume  we  often  mistake  this  very  doctrine.  It 
appears  to  me  not  as  intended  for  our  use  before  conver- 
sion, but  after  it.  It  seems  to  me  given  for  the  support  and 
consolation  of  the  saints,  and  not  as  a  question  for  the  re- 
turning penitent.  We  never  hear  of  the  apostles  making 
use  of  such  expressions  as  these  to  an  inquirer  :  '  It  may  be 
you  are  not  elected.  It  may  be,  though  you  tell  us  you 
believe,  you  are  deceived.'  But  we  find  them  asking  this 
question,  '  Dost  thou  believe  ?  '  Believe  what  ?  That  Jesus 
is  the  Christ.  And  I  ask  you,  my  dear  Hugh,  dost  thou 
believe  ?  Do  you  believe  that  he  lived  ?  that  he  was  the 
Sent  of  God  ?  that  he  died  to  save  sinners  ?  I  know  that 
thou  believest.  Well,  is  your  life  and  conversation  corre- 
sponding to  this  belief?  Do  you  pray  ?  read  the  Scriptures  ? 
obey  the  injunctions  of  Christ  ?  " 

Miller,  however,  is  shy  of  coming  to  close  quarters.  In  a 
letter  of  18th  November  he  takes  a  sportive  tone,  and  chats 
lightly  on  miscellaneous  matters.  Here  is  a  jotting  which 
may  be  read  with  interest.  Rummaging,  one  evening, 


184  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

among  his  papers,  he  comes  upon  the  uncompleted  manu- 
script of  the  "  Boatman's  Tale."  He  seizes  it.  "  Off  we 
went,"  he  proceeds,  u  and  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  arrived 
at  Marquis  shore.  Daily  did  my  fires  smoke  in  the  cave 
there  until  I  had  completed  my  tale.  By  the  way,  I  found 
your  fire-box  extremely  useful.  Marquis  cave  has  ever 
since  my  childhood  been  a  favorite  haunt  of  mine.  If  the 
romantic  scenery  of  the  great  world  has  an  effect  of  mould- 
ing the  fancies  of  the  little  one,  I  know  no  place  where  with 
better  success  that  species  of  poetry  which  I  have  attempted 
in  my  tale  may  be  studied.  I  would  send  your  favorite 
Pope  to  write  verses  in  some  august  palace,  .where  his  eye 
might  rove  over  the  chaste  ornaments  of  architecture,  or 
rest  upon  gay  statues  and  gorgeous  thrones.  I  would  place 
Milton  on  the  blue  summit  of  Etna.  When  the  sun  laughed 
upon  the  world  which  stretched  beneath  his  feet,  I  would 
fancy  him  enjoying  its  beauties.  When  an  earthquake  made 
hills  tremble  and  destroyed  cities,  or  when  some  furious 
storm  dashed  upon  the  base  of  his  throne,  I  could  imagine 
him  elate  in  the  midst  of  horror  and  death,  mingling  his 
song  with  the  music  of  the  tempest.  To  my  master,  Cole- 
ridge, I  will  dispose  of  Marquis  cave.  There,  on  the  rude 
mass  of  granite,  which  I  have  rolled  from  the  beach,  let 
him  sit  and  enjoy  the  fire  I  have  kindled.  There  let  him 
listen  to  the  roar  of  the  ocean  as  it  beats  against  the  rocks, 
or  to  the  blast  roaring  above  his  head  through  shattered 
crags  and  ragged  furze ;  and  when  his  mind  is  filled  with 
the  wild  images  which  on  every  hand  present  themselves, 
let  him  sing  of  bewildered  mariners  and  wretched  spirits. 
Are  you  not  tired?  I  am  sure  I  am.  My  spirits  are 
wretchedly  low  at  present,  and  I  write  bombast  because 
unable  to  write  anything  better." 

But  Swanson  is  in  a  mood  far  too  earnest  to  be  pleased 
with  Miller's  light  humor,  and  he  gently  rebukes  the  levity 


CORRESPONDS   WITH    SWANSON.  185 

of  this  letter.  It  "yielded"  him,  he  frankly  says,  "  some 
degree  of  disappointment."  He  returns  at  once  to  his 
point,  and  puts  the  direct  question,  "  Have  you  made  your 
peace  with  God  ? "  Hugh  can  now  fence  no  longer.  He 
confesses  that  he  had  been  prevented  from  responding  to  his 
friend's  appeals  by  a  "  backward,  mistrustful  pride  and 
bashfulness."  In  simple-hearted  reliance  on  the  friendliness 
of  a  correspondent  who  justified  the  confidence  reposed  in 
him,  he  gives  an  account  of  himself.  "  At  times  I  have 
tried  to  pray.  At  times  I  have  even  thought  that  these 
prayers  were  not  in  vain.  I  have  striven  to  humble  my 
proud  spirit  by  reflecting  on  my  foolishness,  my  misery  and 
guilt.  I  have  thought  to  be  reconciled  to  that  God  who,  in 
his  awful  justice,  has  doomed  the  sinner  to  destruction,  yet 
who,  in  his  infinite  mercy,  has  found  out  a  way  of  redemp- 
tion ;  but  I  am  an  unsteady  and  a  wavering  creature,  nurs- 
ing in  my  foolishness  vain  hopes,  blinded  by  vain  affec- 
tions ;  in  short,  one  who,  though  he  may  have  his  minutes 
of  conviction  and  contrition,  is  altogether  enamored  of  the 
things  of  this  world,  and  a  contemner  of  the  cross." 

The  letter  in  which  this  passage  occurs  is  dated  Decem- 
ber, 1825.  About  this  time  Swanson  becomes  so  absorbed 
in  his  studies  that  he  finds  it  impossible  to  devote  time  to 
correspondence,  and  he  writes  Miller  briefly,  on  the  14th  of 
January,  1826,  to  that  effect.  "~Go  on,  my  dear  Hugh,"  — 
he  says,  in  reference  to  the  chief  subject  on  which  they  had 
exchanged  thoughts,  —  "  go  on,  and  the  Lord  himself  will 
bless  you.  If  you  are  not  under  the  teaching  of  the  Spirit 
of  God,  I  am  deceived,  and  if  I  do  not  find  you  soon  estab- 
lished in  the  way  of  happiness,  peace,  and  life,  I  shall  be 
miserably  disappointed." 

One  cannot  help  remarking,  by  the  way,  that  this  cor- 
respondence is  creditable  to  these  young  friends.  "  How," 
exclaims  Miller  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  can  I  repay  you  for 


186  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

that  deep,  that  generous  interest  which  you  take  in  my 
spiritual  concerns  !  How  can  I  make  a  suitable  return  for 
a  friendship  which,  unlike  the  cold,  selfish  attachments  of 
earth,  approaches,  in  its  nature  and  affectionate  disinterest- 
edness, to  the  love  of  heaven?  Perhaps  I  say  too  much,  — 
I  am  certain  you  will  think  so,  —  but  with  a  heart  so  full  a 
wiser  man  could  hardly  say  less."  Modest,  noble,  kind- 
hearted  Hugh  !  How.  many  would  have  resented  Swansoii's 
interference  in  affairs  which  jealous  pride  and  sensitive 
independence  might  so  plausibly  allege  to  lie  solely  between 
a  man  and  his  Maker  !  From  the  meanness  of  such  pride 
and  the  bitterness  of  such  independence,  Miller's  true  heart 
guards  him  well.  He  is  deeply  grateful.  Swanson,  for  his 
part,  thrilling  with  joy  in  the  possession  of  the  pearl  of 
price,  yearns  to  share  the  treasure  with  his  friend,  and  to 
seal  their  friendship  with  the  seal  of  immortality. 

Pleased,  perhaps,  for  the  moment,  that  his  correspond- 
ence with  Swanson  should  take  a  less  earnest  turn,  Miller 
recurs,  in  his  next  letter,  to  his  vein  of  light,  miscellaneous 
writing.  On  the  26th  of  February  he  gives  his  friend  an 
account  of  a  solitary  excursion  undertaken  by  him,  some 
weeks  previously,  to  the  Dropping  Cave.  The  day  was 
tempestuous.  u  Availing  myself,"  he  writes,  "  of  the 
moment  when  a  huge  wave  in  retiring  left  the  beach  uncov- 
ered, I  sprung  forward  and  gained  the  cave.  There  I 
seated  myself  on  the  very  rock  where,  as  tradition  informs 
us,  the  naked,  gray-bearded  man,  a  few  nights  before  a 
shipwreck,  seats  himself  and  looks  mournfully  on  the  sea. 
Shakespeare  says  something  very  severe  of  the  man  who 
does  not  love  music ;  my  ear  is  wretchedly  dull,  but  as 
there  are  three  kinds  of  music  which  have  the  power  of  rais- 
ing nry  passions,  I  hope  I  am  not  obnoxious  to  his  anathe- 
ma. The  first  of  these  is  the  rolling  of  artillery,  especially 
when  the  sound,  prolonged  by  echo,  returns  upon  the  ear 


IN    THE    DROPPING    CAVE.  187 

three  or  four  times,  each  time  fainter  and  more  hollow. 
The  second  is  the  pealing  of  thunder.  This  is  the  most 
sublime  of  all  sounds.  I  never  hear  it  without  feeling  that, 
though  a  little  and  weak  creature,  I  am  not  meaner  nor 
more  inconsiderable,  when,  laid  in  the  balance  with  Him 
whose  voice  is  then  lifted  up,  than  are  the  mighty  ones  of 
the  earth,  who,  in  their  rage,  their  sport,  or  to  make  them- 
selves a  name,  desolate  kingdoms  or  raise  pyramids.  The 
third  is  that  combination  of  wild  sounds  which,  in  a  tem- 
pest, pleases  yet  stuns  the  ear.  In  the  Dropping  Cave,  like 
a  solitary  Triton  divested  of  his  shell,  I  was  listening  to 
such  a  concert,  —  a  concert  of  the  elements  ;  and  my  mind, 
as  if  sympathizing  with  the  winds  and  waves,  was  overcast 
by  a  mist  of  wild  thoughts,  which  arose  and  passed  away 
even  as  did  the  gray  clouds  which  at  that  time  hurried  over 
the  face  of  the  heavens.  I  sung  verses  of  war-songs.  I 
repeated,  or  rather  shouted  out,  pieces  of  poetry  descriptive 
of  battles  or  tempests,  or,  turning  to  the  recesses  of  the 
cavern,  I  challenged  the  spectre  by  which  it  is  haunted  to 
come  forward  that  we  might  hold  converse  together.  You 
see  how  well  your  friend  can  act  the  madman  when  under 
the  guidance  of  imagination,  yet,  volatile  as  my  mind  is,  I 
do  not  envy  the  gravity  of  the  men  over  whose  judgments 
fancy  never  triumphs." 

This  wild  and  buoyant  humor  was  not,  however,  constant 
with  him.  "You  seem,"  he  writes,  "to  have  been  in  low 
spirits.  Are  you  also  subject  to  those  strange  rises  and 
falls  of  spirit  which,  without  any  assignable  cause,  make 
your  humble  servant  happy,  miserable,  and  mad  by  turns  ? 
I  wish  the  college  session  over,  and  you  fairly  settled  at 
your  mother's  fireside.  I  am  really  vexed  on  seeing  you 
determined  on  killing  yourself.  Is  he  not  as  much  a  suicide 
who  swallows  death  in  the  form  of  a  mathematical  problem, 
as  he  who  takes  an  ounce  of  opium  ?  The  latter  is  certainly 


188  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

the  easiest  way  of  getting  out  of  the  world,  —  there  is  no 
pedantry  in  it."  Affecting  words,  when  read  in  connection 
with  the  history  of  Miller's  closing  years  !  How  little  did 
he  think,  while  rejoicing  in  the  freedom  of  the  hill-side  and 
the  sea-shore,  and  warning  his  friend  with  gentle  earnest- 
ness not  to  overtask  his  brain,  that  he  should  himself  yield 
to  the  terrible  temptation,  and  pay  the  penalty  with  his 
life !  "  Happy  and  miserable  and  mad  by  turns : "  the 
expression  is  striking  and  strange. 

The  strutting  and  declamation  of  this  visit  to  the  Drop- 
ping Cave  are  not  the  sole  illustration  we  have  of  an 
extravagant  and  freakish  humor  indulged  by  Miller  in  this 
period  of  his  life,  —  tolerdbiles  ineptice,  the  trifling  of  a  pow- 
erful mind  which  has  not  yet  found  its  work.  Some  years 
later,  in  February,  1830,  he  details  to  a  correspondent  the 
particulars  of  an  attempt  made  by  him  to  u  create  incident" 
by  descending  into  the  vaulted  tomb  of  the  Urquharts,  in 
the  ancient  burying-ground  adjoining  the  ruinous  chapel  of 
St.  Regulus  or  St.  Rule  in  the  neighborhood  of  Cromarty. 
"  A  few  weeks  ago,"  he  writes,  "  upon  a  dark  and  stormy 
night,  I  procured  a  tinder-box,  three  torches,  and  a  small 
quantity  of  fuel,  and  went  to  the  old  chapel  of  St.  Rule.  I 
descended  to  the  ruinous  vault,  struck  a  light,  lighted  the 
torches,  and  placed  them  at  equal  distances  against  the 
gable  wall.  The  light  rendered  visible  a  scene,  which, 
heightened  by  association,  was  of  no  tame  or  common 
character.  The  floor  below  was  strewn  over  with  fragments 
of  hewn  stone,  gray  with  lichens,  or  green  with  moss,  and 
in  the  interstices  there  were  brown,  discolored  fragments 
of  human  bones.  From  the  crevices  in  the  wall  there 
sprung  a  few  weeds  which  had  pined  throughout  the  sum- 
mer for  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine,  but  now,  as  they 
were  beyond  the  reach  of  the  frost  and  the  cold,  they  were 
green  and  rank,  and  spread  their  tiny  branches  over  the 


IN  THE  VAULT  OF  THE  URQUHARTS.       189 

rough,  damp  stones,  like  silk  foliage  on  a  ground  of  gray 
worsted.  The  arched  roof  above  is  covered  over  with  a 
whitish  stalactitical  matter,  and  stained  with  the  damps 
which  have  oozed  from  the  soil  over  it.  From  the  light  of 
the  torches  it  assumed  a  pale,  shroud-like,  death-like 
appearance.  The  square  opening  above  seemed  a  chasm 
of  darkness ;  and  the  recesses  of  the  vault  furthest  from 
the  light  were  enveloped  in  so  dismal  a  twilight  that  I  could 
almost  have  fancied  that  the  whiter  masses  of  stone  or 
building,  which  stood  out  like  rude  columns  from  the  darker 
wall,  were  some  of  the  old  tenants  of  the  place,  who  had 
risen  to  inquire  after  the  cause  of  my  intrusion.  The 
sounds  which  were  conveyed  to  me  in  this  place  formed  a 
music  worthy  of  such  a  hall.  The  night,  I  have  said,  was 
stormy.  The  rain  was  heard  to  patter  on  the  flat  stones 
above,  the  wind  roared  terribly  through  the  trees  with 
which  the  burying-ground  is  enclosed ;  and  the  stream 
which  runs  through  the  neighboring  ravine,  the  bottom  of 
which  is  many  yards  lower  than  that  of  the  vault,  joined  its 
hoarse  dash  with  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  pattering  of 
the  rain.  In  order  that  I  might  vary  the  scene,  I  piled  up 
a  little  rude  altar  on  the  floor,  and  kindled  a  fire  on  it. 
The  wind  above  prevented  the  smoke  from  rising ;  the 
atmosphere  of  the  vault  became  dense  and  cloudy ;  the 
three  torches  on  the  wall  appeared  from  the  halo  with  which 
each  of  them  was  encircled  three  mock  suns ;  and  the 
features  of  the  scene,  which  were  before  characteristic  of 
the  wild  and  the  ghastly,  were  now  shrouded  '  in  the  dun 
hues  of  earthquake  and  eclipse,'  and  assumed  the  terrible. 
From  above,  the  mouth  of  the  vault  appeared,  through  the 
darkness,  like  the  crater  of  a  volcano." 

Such  were  the  "pleasures  of  the  imagination"  in  which 
young  Miller  could  at  all  times  find  more  enjoyment  than  in 
any  society,  except  that  of  his  most  esteemed  friends.  It 


190  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

may  be  interesting  to  view  Mm  for  a  moment  in  a  more 
subdued  aspect.  It  is,  or  was,  the  custom  in  the  parishes 
of  Scotland  for  the  pastor  at  stated  intervals  to  publicly 
examine  the  members  of  the  congregation  in  the  West- 
minster Assembly's  Catechism.  It  appears  to  have  become 
the  practice  to  catechise  working-men  and  their  children, 
but  not  to  offend  the  sensibilities  of  the  richer  heads  of 
families  by  putting  them  through  the  ordeal  in  presence  of 
the  congregation.  Miller  at  least  thought  that  Mr.  Stewart, 
his  pastor,  of  whom  he  subsequently  learned  to  entertain  a 
different  opinion  from  his  present,  displayed  "  something 
very  like  cowardice  "  in  his  choice  of  persons  to  be  exam- 
ined. "  Our  betters"  he  says  "  (forgive  me  the  use  of  this 
meanest  of  all  Scotticisms),  can,  by  attending  the  diets  of 
catechism,  which  are  held  in  church,  be  either  instructed  or 
made  merry  at  our  expense."  Neither  in  the  way  of  merri- 
ment, however,  nor  in  the  way  of  instruction,  could  much 
be  derived  from  the  appearance  of  Miller,  which  he  thus 
chronicles:  "I  was  catechised  to-day  (Feb.  30,  1826),  by 
Mr.  Stewart.  It  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to  stand  exposed 
point-blank  to  the  gaze  of  two  or  three  hundred  people, 
each  man  more  provokingly  keen-eyed,  than  the  other. 
Had  you  seen  me  standing  before  the  minister  this  day,  as 
conspicuous  as  Saul  among  the  people,  —  my  face  changing 
from  crimson  to  pale  and  from  pale  to  crimson  by  turns,  — 
you  must  either  have  pitied  my  confusion  or  laughed  at  it. 
I  will  strive  to  recollect  the  questions  which  were  asked  me 
and  the  words  with  which  I  answered  them.  '  Who  is  the 
Spirit  ? '  — '  The  Third  Person  of  the  Trinity.'  — '  Is  he  a  per- 
son ? '  —  '  He  is  termed  so.'  —  '  Yes,  he  is.  Do  you  recollect 
any  particular  passages  of  Scripture  which  show  him  as  a 
distinct  person  ? ?  Here  I  was  silent.  c  I  thought,  from 
your  readiness  in  answering  me  my  two  first  questions,  that 
you  would  answer  me  this  one  too.  In  what  form  did  the 


IS   CATECHISED    IN    CHURCH.  191 

Spirit  appear  at  the  baptism  of  our  Saviour?'  —  'In  the 
form  of  a  clove.'  —  '  Yes.  The  Spirit,  then,  is  a  person,  not 
a  mere  influence  proceeding  from  the  Father  and  Son,  as 
some  believe.  In  what  manner  were  we  baptized  ? '  — 
'  With  water,  iu  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit.' 

—  '  Yes.  The  Holy  Ghost  is  a  person.  What  is  the  work  or 
province  of  the  Father? '  — '  He  created  all  things,  and  from 
him  all  things  proceed.'  — '  You  speak  of  him  as  the  Creator. 
I  desire  to  know  what  share  he  has  in  the  redemption  of 
sinners  ? '  — '  He  sent  the  Son.'  — '  Yes.  What  did  the  Son 
do  ? '  — '  He  died  for  us.'  —  '  And  what  was  the  work  of  the 
Spirit  ? '  —  '  He  applies  Christ.'  Here  he  spoke  a  good  deal 
which  I  forget,  and  concluded  by  desiring  me  to  sit  down. 
I  did  so  most  willingly,  for  my  legs  were  trembling  beneath 
me." 

He  gives  a  more  satisfactory  account  of  himself  to  his 
cousin,  William  Munro,  in  a  letter  dated  1st  of  May.  "  I 
in n  writing  at  this  moment  in  the  open  air,  under  the  shade 
of  a  honeysuckle.  The  sun  is  peeping  through  its  leaves, 
and  casting  upon  my  paper  spangles  of  a  bright  hue  and 
strangely  fantastic  form.  As  I  look  upon  them  I  cannot 
avoid  recognizing  a  picture  of  my  own  mind.  It  is  thus  its 
lights  and  shadows  blend  together.  A  little  cloud  has 
passed  over  the  sun,  and  my  page  has  become  dark  and 
sombre ;  and  is  it  not  thus  that  my  fair  hopes  and  gay 
imaginings  ofttimes  pass  away,  and  leave  behind  them  a 
cloud  of  darkness  ?  "  This  picture  may  be  somewhat  high- 
wrought,  as  Miller  had  announced  to  William  Ross  his 
intention  to  send  his  cousin  "  a  fine  sentimental  letter, 
resembling  that  of  a  boarding-school  miss." 

On  the  19th  of  August  he  writes  to  Swanson,  and  his 
correspondence  touches  again  upon  matters  of  importance. 
The  town  of  Cromarty  was  at  this  time  the  residence  of  a 
Baptist  gentleman  of  decided  views  and  proselytizing  ten- 


192  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

dencies.  He  appears  to  have  considered  the  poetical  mason 
a  desirable  acquisition  for  his  church.  "  A  few  days  ago," 
writes  Miller,  "  when  at  work  in  the  old  chapel  burying- 
ground,  I  was  favored  by  a  visit  from  Mr.  M ,  the  Bap- 
tist. He  and  I  had  a  long  conversation  together.  Our 
subject  was  the"  peculiar  tenets  of  his  sect,  and  (if  you 
allow  me  the  expression)  the  opposing  ones  of  mine.  It 
was  he  who  attacked,  and  I  who  did  not  defend ;  but  I 
leaned  most  manfully  upon  my  arms  and  looked  on.  And 
what  did  I  see,  do  you  ask?  Why,  I  saw  much  of  the 
strength  and  of  the  weakness  of  his  cause,  and  much  of 
his  strength  and  weakness  as  an  individual.  I  am  pretty 
certain  he  saw  none  of  mine.  In  his  opinion  concerning 
Church  government  I  agree  entirely  with  him.  But  this  is 
no  change  of  mine ;  for  long  since,  when  angered  by  the 
unjust  encroachments  on  civil  liberty  of  proud  Churchmen,  — 
men  to  whom,  in  describing,  Hume  and  Voltaire  have  done 
justice,  —  I  was  led  to  examine  the  ground  upon  which  they 
had  founded  their  pretensions,  and  saw  it  to  be  a  forced 
mass,  uncemented  except  with  the  blood  of  persecution  or 
by  the  unsolid  sophistry  of  the  schools.  But  though,  by  an 
inference  seemingly  reasonable,  I  see  a  connection  subsist- 
ing between  the  baptism  of  Mr.  M and  the  apostolic 

form  of  Church  government,  I  can  also  see  that  upon  this 
connection,  discovered  by  this  seemingly  reasonable  infer- 
ence from  Scripture,  not  by  Scripture  itself,  can  Baptists 
alone  build.  This,  when  I  consider  the  fallacy  of  several 
Scripture  inferences  which  appear  as  reasonable,  I  think  an 
unsolid  foundation.  I  could  prove  by  an  inference  deduced 
from  Scripture  data  that  the  mental  and  bodily  sufferings 
of  one  man  could  not  in  justice  be  accepted  as  an  atonement 
for  the  crimes  of  another.  Where  would  inferences  seem- 
ingly reasonable,  deduced  from  the  doctrine  of  predestina- 
tion, lead  us  ?  To  impiety  the  most  horrible.  I  need  not 
remind  you  of  Carlyle's  inferences,  or  of  some  others  which 


A    BAPTIST.  193 

you  will  find  in  the  writings  of  Kairnes  and  Hume.  This 
may  not  be  argument ;  but  where,  suffer  me  to  ask,  is  a 
doctrine  upon  the  knowledge  of  which  man's  salvation  de- 
pends, which  is  not  fairly  stated  in  Scripture,  repeated 
oftener  than  once,  and  viewed  in  a  variety  of  lights?  Then 
let  me  be  shown  where  He  who  spake  as  man  never  spake, 
or  any  of  his  servants,  the  apostles,  has,  or  have  said, 
c  Baptize  not  your  children,  but  suffer  themselves  to  come 
forward,  when  awakened  by  the  Spirit,  to  be  baptized/  — 
show  me  this,  or  a  passage  of  like  meaning,  and  I  will  be- 
come a  Baptist.*  During  the  course  of  our  conversation  I 

perceived  in  some  of  Mr.  M 's  remarks  traces  of  that 

foul  spirit  which  can,  like  the  harpies  who  settled  upon 
the  viands  of  JEneas,  perch  upon  the  soundest  creeds.  Will 
you  believe  that  he  dared  tell  me  that  a  good  Christian  pas- 
tor of  the  Church  of  Scotland  did  more  harm  to  the  true 
Church  than  a  mere  hireling?  How,  think  you,  did  he 
prove  this  ?  '  The  good  man,'  said  he,  '  through  a  mistaken 
zeal,  supports  the  impure  Church  of  which  he  is  a  member, 
and  thus  unwittingly  does  evil ;  the  hireling,  on  the  other 
hand,  by  disgusting  the  sensible  and  well-inclined,  hastens 
its  downfall,  and  thus  unwittingly  does  good.'  What  think 
you  of  this  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  will  just  remark  that  it 


*  It  is  interesting  to  see  how  another  eminent  Pedobaptist  put  tho  onus  probandi  of  this  question 
entirely  on  the  other  side :  "  If  I  should  inform  any  one,"  says  Coleridge,  "  that  I  had  called  at  a 
friend's  house,  but  had  found  nobody  at  home,  the  family  having  all  gone  to  the  play;  and  if  he, 
on  the  strength  of  this  information,  should  take  occasion  to  asperse  my  friend's  wife  for  unmotherly 
conduct,  in  taking  an  infant  six  months  old  to  a  crowded  theatre,  would  you  allow  him  to  press  on 
the  words  •  nobody  '  and  4  all  the  family  '  in  justification  of  the  slander?  Would  you  not  tell  him, 
that  the  words  were  to  be  interpreted  by  the  nature  of  the  subject,  the  purpose  of  the  speaker,  and 
their  ordinary  acceptation,  and  that  he  must,  or  might,  have  known  that  infants  of  that  age  would 
not  be  admitted  into  the  theatre  ?  Exactly  so,  with  regard  to  the  words,  he  and  all  Ms  household. 
Had  baptism  of  infants  at  that  early  period  of  the  Gospel  been  a  known  practice,  or  had  this  been 
previously  demonstrated,  then  indeed  the  argument,  that  in  all  probability  there  were  infants  or 
young  children  in  so  large  a  family,  would  be  no  otherwise  objectionable  than  as  being  superfluous, 
and  as  sort  of  anti-climax  in  logic.  But  if  the  words  are  cited  a«  the  proof,  it  would  be  a  clear 
petitio  principiij  though  there  had  been  nothing  else  against  it.  But  when  we  turn  back  to  the 
Scriptures  preceding  the  narrative,  and  find  repentance  and  belief  demanded  as  the  terms  and  in- 
dispensable conditions  of  Baptism,  then  the  case  above  imagined  applies  in  its-full  force." —  Vol.Lf 
p.  335,  Saml.  Taylor  Coleridge's  "Complete  Works."  —  Am.  Pub. 


I9i  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

strengthens  by  experience  an  opinion  I  have  long  held.  It 
is,  that  in  the  field  of  religious  controversy  the  rankest  and 
most  poisonous  weeds  do  spring.  What  a  wretched  thing 
is  it  that  a  man,  in  his  zeal  for  truth,  should  run  himself 
headlong  into  error ;  that  in  his  haste  to  establish  a  few 
doubtful  notions  belonging  to  the  head,  he  should  starve  the 
good,  and  indulge  the  evil,  feelings  of  the  heart !  " 

So  Hugh  Miller,  the  lay  champion  of  the  Free  Church, 
was  in  his  twenty-fourth  year  of  the  same  opinion  "  con- 
cerning Church  government "  with  the  Baptists  !  Does  this 
imply  that  he  was  at  that  time  a  Voluntary  ?  I  know  not. 
His  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  religious  controversy  are 
also  noteworthy.  Were  they  modified  by  his  subsequent 
experience  of  ecclesiastical  discussion?  I  think  not. 

To  Miller's  letter  of  the  19th  of  August,  Swanson  replies 
on  the  29th  of  the  same  month.  Passing  hastily  over  mat- 
ters of  minor  importance,  he  comes  to  what  lies  nearest  his 
heart.  "  I  have  experienced  here  great  kindness  among 
my  Christian  friends.  Oh  that  I  could  with  confidence 
rank  you  among  the  number  !  I  cannot  think  that  you  are 
aware  how  near  you  are  to  my  heart.  Blessed  be  God  that 
Christ  is  still  nearer !  I  pray  and  hope  that  you  will  one 
day  be  one  with  me  in  him.  I  wait  but  for  your  confession 
to  recognize  you  as  a  brother.  .  .  .  My  dear  Hugh,  my 
metaphysical  speculations  are  entirely  exploded  (oh,  let  me 
never  cease  to  pray  that  I  may  be  preserved  from  again 
setting  up  blind  reason  as  a  God  to  worship ;  thousands 
have  perished  at  his  shrine;  why  was  I  not  left?),  and, 
since  exploded,  I  have  learnt  to  take  the  word  of  God 
simply  as  I  find  it,  and  the  consequence  is  peace  and  joy, 
I  long  much  to  see  you.  Oh,  will  you  not  accept  of  Christ  ? 
You  believe  the  truth  of  God.  See,  then,  the  freeness  and 
fulness  of  the  gospel  offer  made  to  you.  Believe  the  record, 
that  God  hath  given  to  us  eternal  life,  and  this  life  in  his 
Son  ;  believe  this,  and  all  shall  be  well." 


BASHFULNESS.  195 

On  the  2d  of  September,  —  almost  as  soon,  therefore, 
as  he  can  have  received  Swanson's  letter,  —  Miller  replies 
to  it.  He  declares  himself  "  exhausted,  dull,  lazy,  sick, 
melancholy,"  and  quite  unable  to  write  an  interesting  letter. 
For  his  reluctance  to  write  there  is,  he  confesses,  another 
cause.  "  I  feel  that,  after  your  earnest  and  affectionate 
exhortation,  it  would  be  something  worse  than  unfriendly 
of  me  not  to  unbosom  myself  before  you  ;  yet  what  have  I 
to  confess  ?  Were  I  an  unbeliever,  though  I  would  assur 
edly  lose  my  friend  by  confessing  myself  one,  still  that  con- 
fession would  be  made.  I  would  scorn  to  hold  the  affec- 
tions of  any  one  by  appearing  what  I  am  not.  Or  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  were  a  Christian  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word,  I  hope  I  would  have  courage  enough  to  avow  my  pro- 
fession, not  only  to  you  or  to  those  from  whom  I  could 
expect  nothing  except  kindness,  but  even  to  the  proudest 
and  boldest  scorner.  But  what  profession  can  the  luke- 
warm Laodicean  make  ?  —  the  man  who,  one  moment,  is  as 
assured  of  the  truth  of  the  gospel  of  Christ  as  he  is  of  his 
own  existence,  and  who,  in  another,  regards  the  whole 
scheme  of  redemption  as  a  cunningly  devised  fable.  It 
will  not  do  !  I  am  not  afc  present  collected  enough  to  give 
you  a  faithful  account  of  what  is  my  religious  belief ;  I  will 
just  say  that,  as  far  as  the  head  is  concerned,  my  creed  is  a 
sound  one,  but  alas  for  the  heart !  " 

The  remainder  of  the  letter  accords  well  with  this  profes- 
sion of  indifference,  or  at  least  of  vacillation  and  vicissi- 
tude, in  spiritual  affairs.  He  speaks  of  other  matters,  and 
bewails  his  bashfulness  in  society.  "  In  that  proper  assur- 
ance which  is  opposed  to  bashfulness,"  he  says,  "  there  is 
scarce  a  young  girl  in  the  country  who  is  not  my  superior." 
Pie  knows  that  this  is  a  weakness,  but  declares  that  he  can- 
not help  it.  "  In  one  of  Shenstone's  larger  poems,"  he  pro- 
ceeds, u  there  is  an  exquisite  description  of  a  bashful  man 
when  in  company ;  and  were  it  not  that  he  is  represented 


196  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

as  possessed  of  talent  and  virtue,  I  would  lay  my  hand 
on  the  page,  and  say,  this  is  a  portrait  of  II M . 

"  *  But  ill-starred  sense,  nor  gay  nor  loud, 
Steals  soft  on  tiptoe  through  the  crowd, 
Conveys  his  meagre  form  between, 
And  slides  like  pervious  air  unseen, 
Contracts  his  known  tenuity 
As  though  'twere  ev'n  a  crime  to  be, 
Nor  ev'n  permits  his  eyes  to  stray 
To  win  acquaintance  in  their  way. 

In  company,  so  mean  his  air, 
You  scarce  are  conscious  he  is  there, 
Till  from  some  nook,  like  sharpened  steel, 
Occurs  his  face's  thin  profile, 
Still  seeming  from  the  gazer's  eye 
Like  Venus  newly  bathed  to  fly. 

Disused  to  speak,  he  tries  his  skill, 
Speaks  coldly  and  succeeds  but  ill, 
His  pensive  manner  dulness  deemed, 
His  modesty  reserve  esteemed, 
His  wit  unknown,  his  learning  vain, 
He  wins  not  one  of  all  the  train.'  " 

Swanson  receives  this  letter  on  the  5th  of  September. 
He  answers  it  the  same  day.  He  implores  his  friend  to 
get  rid  of  the  melancholy  which  preys  upon  his  mind  by  a 
"  full,  free,  and  simple  acceptation  of  the  gospel.  Pardon 
me,  my  dear  friend,"  he  adds,  "  when  I  say  that  I  fear  you 
have  religious  opinions  not  derived  from  the  Bible.  Read 
it  as  if  you  never  heard  a  word  concerning  it  before."  On 
the  30th  of  September  Miller  writes  again :  "I  am  still 
employed  on  the  chapel  brae  in  hewing  a  second  tombstone 

for  Colonel  G .     That  spot  is  now  beginning  to  lose  its 

charms  ;  every  breeze  which  passes  over  it  carries  a  shower 
of  withered  leaves  upon  its  wings  ;  the  herbage  is  assuming 
a  sallow  hue,  and  I  stand  alone  in  the  midst  of  desolation, 
in  all  except  sublimity  of  feeling  the  prototype  of  Camp- 
bell's last  man.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  advancing  in 


GRAVE    THOUGHTS.  197 

wisdom  as  in  years  (I  rather  suspect  not) ,  but  somehow  the 
thought  of  death  often  presses  upon  me  in  these  days.  I 
look  upon  the  little'  hillocks  which  are  laid  above  men 
and  women  and  children,  the  traits  of  whose  features  are 
pictured  in  my  memory,  and  when  by  its  aid  I  conjure  up 
their  forms  when,  gay  and  restless,  they  followed  the  busi- 
nesses or  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  then  when,  in  the  eye  of 
the  imagination,  I  behold  them  stretched  in  the  dark  coffin, 
cold,  and  black,  and  mouldy,  without  form  or  motion,  I 
pause  and  ask,  What  is  this  Death,  this  mighty  Death,  that 
turns  mirth  to  sadness,  that  unnerves  the  arm  of  the 
strong  and  pales  the  cheek  of  the  beautiful? 

"  I  remember  to  have  seen,  many  years  ago,  old  Eben, 
the  sexton,  digging  a  grave.  He  raised  a  coffin,  which, 
though  much  decayed,  was  still  entire,  and  placed  it  on  the 
earth  he  had  thrown  out.  I  was  a  mere  boy  at  the  time, 
and  out  of  a  foolish  curiosity,  when  his  back  was  turned,  I 
raised  with  the  edge  of  his  spade  the  lid  of  the  coffin.  The 
appearance  of  the  mouldering  remains  which  it  contained, 
nothing  can  erase  from  my  memory.  I  see  them  even  now 
before  me,  in  all  their  sad  and  disgusting  deformity,  and 
still  when  I  hear  or  read  of  the  empire  of  death,  —  of  the 
wrecks  of  death,  or  of  the  change  which  death  works  on  the 
human  frame,  —  imagination  immediately  reverts  to  a  long, 
black  skeleton,  clothed  over  with  a  mouldy  earth  to  which, 
in  some  places,  the  rotten  grave-clothes  are  attached. 
This  is  a  disgusting  image,  but  it  is  not  a  useless  one,  for 
when,  thinking  of  death,  I  bare  my  arm  and  look  at  the 
blue  veins  shining  through  the  transparent  skin,  —  when  I 
look  and  think  that  the  day  may  not,  cannot,  be  far  distant 
when  it  shall  become  as  black  and  as  mouldy  as  that  of  the 
skeleton,  —  I  start,  for  there  is  something  in  the  contrast 
which  removes  all  the  accumulation  of  commonplace  which 
the  habit  of  hearing  and  speaking  at  second  hand  of  death 
hath  cast  upon  that  awful  thing. 


193  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"  But  what  is  the  fruit,  you  will  ask,  of  these  cogitations? 
Follow  me  a  little  farther  and  you  shall  see.  If  the  soul 
be  a  mere  quality  affixed  to  matter,  which  shall  die  when 
that  matter  is  changed  from  animate  into  inanimate,  then, 
though  the  thought  of  the  havoc  which  death  works  on  the 
human  frame  tends  to  lower  the  pride  of  the  haughty,  it  is 
not  a  harassing  one  to  the  philosopher.  Life  is  full  of 
evil  and  unhappiness  ;  death  is  a  state  of  rest.  When  the 
tyrant  Edward  invaded  this  country ;  when  Wallace,  its 
bravest  defender,  was  betrayed  and  slain ;  when  the  car- 
nage of  Flodden  filled  Scotland  with  mourning,  or  the  de- 
feat of  Pinkie  with  fear,  —  I  was  neither  sad,  nor  angry,  nor 
afraid,  for  I  was  not  called  into  existence  until  twenty-four 
years  ago.  And  in  a  few  years  after  this,  if  the  soul  be 
not  immortal,  I  shall  again  have  passed  (if  I  may  use  the 
expression)  into  a  state  of  non-existence,  and  though  my 
mouldering  remains  may  raise  horror  in  the  breasts  of  the 
living,  the  vacuum  which  once  existed  shall  not  sympathize 
with  them.  But  that  the  soul  is  immortal,  if  it  be  the  same 
wise  God  that  created  the  heavens  and  earth  who  formed 
man,  I  must  believe  ;  and  if  that  soul,  after  it  has  departed 
from  its  fleshly  nook,  is  to  be  punished  or  rewarded  accord- 
ing to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body,  —  this  I  also  must  and 
shall  believe ;  then  death  becomes  not  the  herald  of  rest, 
but  the  messenger  of  judgment.  Thus  far  unassisted  rea- 
son can  go.  Socrates  went  still  further,  for,  when  other 
philosophers  were  raving  of  an  absurd,  because  unattaina- 
ble, virtue,  by  the  possession  of  which  men  were  to  be  made 
happy  both  in  this  world  and  the  next,  he  taught  of  the 
evil  that  dwelleth  in  the  human  heart,  and  of  the  help 
which  cometh  from  God.  But  it  is  to  the  pages  of  Revela- 
tion we  must  turn,  if  it  be  our  desire  to  learn  with  certainty 
how  to  prepare  for  death  by  making  the  Judge  our  friend. 

"  You  have  often  urged  me  with  a  friendly  zeal,  both  in 
speech  and  by  writing,  to  forsake  sin  and  turn  to  God. 


SWANSON    TO    MILLER.  199 

Your  letters  and  conversations  have  had  an  effect,  —  I  wish 
I  could  add  the  desired  one.  I  give  some  of  my  time  to 
the  study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  have  become  perhaps  nearly 
as  well  acquainted  as  the  mere  theorist  can  be  with  the 
scheme  of  redemption.  Nay,  more,  I  pray.  But  the  day- 
beam  has  not  yet,  I  am  afraid,  dawned  upon  me,  —  the 
light  vouchsafed  is  not  a  clear  and  steady  one  like  the 
beam  of  the  morning ;  it  is  rather  like  the  reflection  of 
lightning  in  a  dark  night,  —  a  momentary  glimpse  suc- 
ceeded by  an  hour  of  gloom.  My  prevailing  disposition  is 
evil,  and  though  I  have  oftener  than  once  experienced  a 
feeling  strange  indeed  to  the  human  heart,  —  a  feeling  of 
love  to  God,  —  the  cares  of  the  world  and  the  allurements 
of  pleasure  draw  away  my  affections,  and  the  old  man  is 
again  put  on. . 

"The  town  clock  has  struck  the  hour  of  twelve,  —  so, 
for  the  present,  adieu  !  " 

Swanson  replies  on  the  9th  of  October.  The  speculative 
part  of  Miller's  letter  he  passes  by,  and  fixes  on  the  state- 
ment that  he  had  begun  to  pray.  "Have  you.  indeed, 
then,"  he  exclaims,  "  set  your  face  towards  Zion?  Have 
you  indeed  begun  to  call  upon  the  name  of  the  Lord? 
Feeble  as  your  beginnings  may  be,  can  you  doubt  that  he 
will  hear  you  ?  Can  you  dare  ?  Would  you  wish  to  draw 
back  ?  .  .  .  .  You  have  now  closed  with  Christ,  and, 
closing  with  him,  I  trust  closed  more  fully  (if  that  were 
possible ;  and  it  was)  with  me.  Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  join 
heart  and  hand  and  to  put  them  thus  joined  into  the  hand 
of  Christ !  .  .  .  .  O  Hugh,  I  have  not  a  single  com- 
plaint to  make  ;  my  cup  is  running  over  !  With  regard  to 
the  manner  in  which  God  will  dispose  of  me,  I  am,  at 
present,  quite  ignorant.  I  have  no  prospect,  and  no 
earthly  friend  who,  while  he  would  wish  to  do  anything  for 
me,  has  it  in  his  power.  Before  the  end  of  this  session  I 
believe  I  shall  be  without  a  shilling,  and  I  have  no  hand  to 


200  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

look  to.  No  hand,  did  I  say  ?  Nay,  I  have  the  hand  of  Om- 
nipotence to  look  to,  and  he  will  aid  me.  Oh,  it  is  sweet  to 
depend  on  him  for  everything  coming  directly  from  him  !  " 

A  month  elapses  before  Hugh  replies,  and  his  answer*  has 
none  of  the  warmth  of  feeling  for  which  we  might  have 
looked.  "  After  perusing  your  last  letter,"  he  writes,  "  I 
sat  down  to  tell  you  that  I  was  not  a  little  alarmed  by  your 
recognizing  me  as  a  Christian  brother ;  I  then  stated  my 
grounds  of  alarm  ;  and,  willing  to  furnish  you  with  a  kind 
of  data  by  which  you  would  be  enabled  to  judge  of  the 
spiritual  state  of  your  friend,  I  recommenced  a  historical 
detail  of  the  fluctuating  opinions  of  my  mind  for  the  last 
seven  years.  But  I  now  see  that  a  narrative  so  long,  and 
in  which  I  will  require  to  be  so  careful  of  error,  will  en- 
gross more  of  my  time  than  I  can  conveniently  devote  to  it 
at  present." 

The  "  historical  detail,"  here  referred  to,  in  so  far  as  it 
appears  to  have  ever  been  written  down,  is  contained  in  an 
unfinished  letter,  dated  October,  1826.  It  is  a  somewhat 
rough,  though  not  a  careless,  sketch,  and,  from  the  ex- 
pressions just  quoted,  a  doubt  may  be  reasonably  enter- 
tained whether  Miller  considered  it,  even  in  the  part  which 
he  completed,  perfectly  accurate.  What  is  more  to  be 
regretted,  it  was  never  finished.  The  dark  side  of  his 
spiritual  history  is  portrayed  in  what  he  wrote,  but  the 
bright  side  and  the  transition  between  the  dark  and  the 
bright  continue  unrevealed.  The  want,  it  is  true,  can,  in 
all  essential  respects,  be  supplied  from  other  letters,  or 
from  passages  in  his  works.  There  is  no  ground  for  doubt 
as  to  the  conclusion,  theoretic  or  practical,  at  which  he 
arrived.  But  a  delineation  by  himself  of  his  spiritual  ex- 
perience at  this  crisis  of  his  religious  history  would  have 
had  a  nice  verisimilitude  which  no  description  by  another 
hand  can  attain.  It  is  important  to  observe  that  he  takes 
the  tone  of  one  describing  a  process  which  has  reached  its 


HISTORY   OF   HIS   MIND.  201 

issue  ;  he  believes  himself  to  have  "  a  changed  heart,"  and 
he  aims  at  explaining  to  his  friend  how  the  change  took 
place.  Every  subsequent  year  of  Miller's  life  bore  testi- 
mony that,  on  this  point,  he  was  not  mistaken.  Here  is 
what  remains  of  the  "  historical  detail :  "  — 

"  I  know  not  in  what  words  to  confess  that  your  last  let- 
ter, friendly  and  affection-breathing  as  it  was,  alarmed  and 
in  some  degree  rendered  me  unhappy.  You  recognize,  you 
address  me  as  a  Christian  brother ;  and,  when  I  look  within 
and  see  how  doubtful  the  signs  of  a  radical  change  of  heart 
are,  when  I  see  how  little  there  is  to  justify  even  the  lim- 
ited profession  I  made  when  I  last  addressed  you  by  writ- 
ing, I  tremble  lest  you  are  throwing  away  your  affections 
on  a  deceiver  who  is  now  even  less  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship than  when  he  confessed  himself  a  stranger  to  Christ. 
But  why  tremble  on  this  account?  If  I  am  a  deceiver,  I 
am  not  a  wilful  one ;  for  the  hypocrite  only  trembles  when 
detected  or  on  the  verge  of  detection,  and  if,  by  mistaking 
an  excited  imagination  for  a  changed  heart,  I  deceive  both 
my  friend  and  myself,  I  am  surely  rather  unfortunate  than 
guilty. 

"  I  have  for  some  time  had  the  intention  of  writing  for 
your  perusal  a  history  of  my  mind,  with  its  various  and 
varying  opinions  for  the  last  seven  years.  For  this  I  have 
more  than  one  reason.  I  would  wish,  by  showing  3^011  what 
I  am  and  what  I  have  been,  to  furnish  you  with  data  from 
whence  you  might  draw  whatever  conclusion  your  judg- 
ment or  experience  warranted.  I  would  wish  to  give  you  a 
faithful  picture  of  my  mind,  and  thus  add  to  your  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature  by  casting  light  on  the  only  point 
with  which  you  are  not  already  acquainted  as  well  or  better 
than  myself.  I  would  also  wish,  by  calling  to  recollection, 
and  then  examining,  the  vague  and  foolish  opinions  that 
once  formed  my  belief,  to  prevent  the  Tempter  from  reign- 


202  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ing  over  me  a  second  time  by  laws  whose  injustice  I  have 
discovered,  or  shaking  me  by  quibbles  of  whose  insolidity  I 
have  had  experience. 

"  I  believe  I  may  term  my  education  a  religious  one.  I 
was  examined  in  the  Catechism  by  my  uncles  every  Sabbath 
night,  and  forced  to  attend  regularly  at  church.  This,  you 
will  say,  is  a  poor  definition  of  the  words  religious  educa- 
tion, but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  is  all  that  is  meant  by 
them.  As  I  advanced  into  the  latter  years  of  boyhood  I 
became  impatient  of  this  restraint,  and,  after  many 
struggles,  in  which  I  showed  a  fierceness  and  desperation 
of  character  worthy  of  the  liberty  for  which  I  strove,  I  be- 
came, as  some  of  my  friends  satirically  termed  me,  a  lad 
of  my  own  will.  As  a  lad  of  my  own  will,  I  was  a  Sab- 
bath-breaker, and  a  robber  of  orchards ;  and,  as  strange, 
foolish  thoughts,  passages  of  Scripture,  and  questions  on 
the  subject  of  religion  would  at  times  either  flash  upon  my 
recollection  or  rise  in  my  mind,  just  for  the  sake  of  peace, 
I  also  became  an  atheist.  A  boy  atheist  is  surely  a  strange 
and  uncommon  character.  I  was  one  in  reality,  for,  pos- 
sessed of  a  strong  memory,  which  my  uncles  and  an  early 
taste  for  reading  had  stored  with  religious  sentiments  and 
stories  of  religious  men,  I  was  compelled,  as  I  have  already 
said,  for  peace'  sake,  either  to  do  that  which  was  right,  or, 
by  denying  the  truth  of  the  Bible,  to  set  every  action,  good 
or  bad,  on  the  same  level,  and  I  had  chosen  the  latter  as 
the  more  free  and  pleasing  way.  My  mind,  as  you  will  see 
in  the  sequel  of  my  story,  long  retained  the  bent  which  it 
at  this  time  acquired  ;  but  my  actions,  restrained  by  a  ris- 
ing pride,  by  notions  of  honor,  perhaps  by  a  conscience 
which,  though  fast  asleep,  had  its  dreams,  became  less  rep- 
rehensible. I  became  what  the  world  calls  honest ;  and, 
from  a  dislike  of  drink  and  noisy-  company,  had  all  along 
preserved  a  habit  of  sobriety,  but  to  every  other  vice  to 


"HOW  TO  LIVE/'  203 

which  a  young  man  of  sixteen  is  exposed,  I  was  addicted. 
You  are  aware  that,  much  earlier  than  this,  I  composed 
pieces  in  rhyme,  which  1  called  poems.  One  of  the  drawers 
of  my  desk  is  filled  with  copies  of  these  youthful  effusions, 
which  I  preserve  both  for  the  sake  of  the  recollections  at- 
tached to  them,  and  for  the  history  I  can  trace  in  them  of 
the  growth  of  my  mind  and  its  varying  opinions.  The 
short  piece  I  here  insert,  with  a  few  subsequent  alterations, 
was  written  in  my  sixteenth  year.  You  will  see  in  it,  con- 
fused with  a  good  deal  of  mythologic  nonsense,  a  con- 
fession of  the  school  of  morals  to  which  I  then  belonged. 
What  is  said  of  wine  and  Bacchus,  you  are  to  recollect,  is 
mere  imitation :  — 

1  'HOW  TO  LIVE. 

"  Oh,  free  as  air,  light  as  the  wind, 

Let  us  spend  Life's  years  away, 
To  coming  evil  wisely  blind, 

Still  be  glad  when  glad  we  may. 
For  what  is  philosophic  lore, 

"What  the  schoolmen's  boasted  rules  ? 
Go,  sound  it  loud  as  ocean's  roar,  — 

The  cloak  of  knaves,  the  boast  of  fools. 

"  Bright  wine  and  love  shall  banish  care, 

Pleasure  all  our  thoughts  employ ; 
Let  Bacchus  be  our  god  of  prayer, 

Bacchus  and  the  Paphian  boy. 
Let  mirthful  Momus,  laughing,  still 

O'er  our  harmless  feasts  preside, 
And  lovely*  nymphs  be  there  to  fill 

The  cup  to  dry,  grave  lips  denied. 

"  Thus  years  shall  pass  when  age  steals  on, 
Ere  the  last  joys  of  life  are  gone ; 
Jocund,  let  us  rise  and  say 
Sweet  has  passed  life's  stormy  day. 
And  when  Time  strides  gravely  in, 
To  warn  us  that  our  sands  have  run, 


204  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"  Gay,  ere  fails  our  latest  breath, 
Let  our  song  be,  '  Welcome  Death.' 
"When  life,  save  pain,  can  nothing  give, 
When  wine  disgusts,  and  cold  is  love, 
Rather  than  live  in  pain  and  fear, 
Welcome  the  shroud,  the  grave,  the  bier !  " 

"  About  a  year  after  I  had  written  this  piece,  I  had  sev- 
eral argumentative  conversations  with  my  cousin  G.  on  the 
subject  of  religion.  I  boldly  and  impiously  declared  to 
him  that  I  considered  it  as  a  cheat,  and  when  he  began  to 
support  his  opinions,  which  were  directly  the  reverse  of 
mine,  by  Scripture  quotations,  I  told  him  that  I  considered 
the  Bible  and  Alcoran  as  of  equal  authority.  I  made  use 
of  some  other  imprudent  and  impious  expressions  at  that 
time,  which  I  still  remember,  and  now  heartily  regret.  G. 
was  so  much  scandalized  at  what  he  then  heard,  that  he 
threatened  to  inform  my  uncles  and  other  friends,  nay,  more, 
every  one  who  was  in  the  least  acquainted  with  me,  of  my 
scepticism.  This  alarmed  me,  for  I  had  wisdom  enough  to 
see  that,  though  the  c  religious '  be  no  numerous  or  formi- 
dable body,  the  prejudiced  are  ;  and  that  men  who  were  no 
better  Christians  than  myself  would  look  upon  the  professed 
atheist  with  horror  and  detestation.  Notwithstanding  his 
threat,  he  was  silent  on  the  subject  of  our  conversations, 
but  the  recollection  of  it,  and  the  anticipation  of  its  conse- 
quences, had  the  effect  of  making  me  so  prudent,  that  is,  so 
hypocritical,  that  whenever  religion  became  a  subject  of 
conversation  in  any  company  of  which  I  formed  one,  I  gave 
a  passive  assent  to  whatever  was  said  in  its  favor. 

"  About  the  end  of  the  year  1820  I  had  a  fearful  dream, 
which,  for  the  time,  had  the  effect  of  converting  me  into  a 
kind  of  believer,  —  a  believer  of  I  knew  not  what.  I 
dreamed  I  was  wandering  through  a  solitary  and  desert 
country ;  that  I  was  alone,  restless,  and  unhappy.  All  at 


A    DREAM.  205 

once  the  skies  became  dark  and  overcast,  and  a  gloom  like 
that  of  a  stormy  winter's  evening  seemed  to  settle  over  the 
face  of  nature.  By  one  of  those  changes  so  common  in 
dreams,  the  country  appeared  no  longer  unpeopled  ;  but  the 
figures  I  saw  were  so  dark,  so  indistinct,  so  silent,  that  in 
my  terror  I  regarded  them  not  as  men,  but  spirits  who  were 
wandering  about  in  unhappiness  until  the  time  came  in 
which  they  were  to  reanimate  the  bodies  in  which  they  once 
dwelt.  A  fearful  presentiment  arose  in  my  mind  that  the 
day  of  judgment  was  at  hand  ;  I  felt  the  petrifying  influence 
of  despair  pervade  every  faculty,  yet,  though  my  agony 
was  extreme,  I  could  neither  weep  nor  pray.  In  a  little 
time  the  clouds  began  to  disperse,  and  through  a  clear,  blue 
opening  I  perceived  a  large,  cloudy  scroll  spread  on  the 
face  of  the  heavens,  which,  with  a  flickering,  undulating 
motion,  at  one  moment  resembled  a  dark,  sulphureous 
flame,  and  at  another  reminded  me  of  a  banner  waving  in 
the  wind.  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  it  in  fear  and  astonish- 
ment, and  perceived  that  in  its  centre  a  few  dark  characters 
were  inscribed.  I  strove  to  decipher  them,  but  could  not. 
In  a  few  seconds,  however,  the  coloring  of  the  scroll  deep- 
ened gradually,  as  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  increase  from 
dimness  to  brilliancy.  I  read  its  startling  motto,  '  Take 
warning  ! '  and  awoke.  My  mind  was  dreadfully  agitated. 
The  sweat,  which,  during  my  dream,  had  flowed  from  every 
pore,  was  cooled  upon  my  brow,  but  my  heart  was  still 
burning.  In  my  terror  I  vowed  that,  for  the  future,  I  would 
be  no  longer  a  sinner,  and  I  began  to  pray  ;  but  my  prayers 
were  addressed,  not  to  the  God  of  the  Christian,  but  to  the 
God  of  the  heathen  philosopher.  I  was  awakened  to  a 
painful  consciousness  of  sin.  I  had  heard  that  God  was 
merciful,  and  on  the  strength  of  that  attribute  I  addressed 
myself  to  him  ;  but  alas  !  I  did  not  know  that  his  justice  is 
as  infinite  as  his  mercy,  and  that  no  sinner  can  be  accepted 


206  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

by  him  unless  he  appeal  to  the  sufferings  and  righteous- 
ness of  that  Saviour  whom  his  sins  have  pierced. 

"  The  recollection  of  my  dream  haunted  me  for  about  ten 
days,  during  which  time  I  prayed.  A  natural  bashfulness 
withheld  me  from  making  any  show  of  sanctity,  but  my 
heart  was  very  proud  of  its  newly  acquired  purity,  and  I 
regarded  myself  as  a  much  better  man  than  many  of  my 
acquaintances.  But  the  foundation  on  which  my  hopes 
were  raised  was  not  one  of  sand,  —  a  sandy  foundation 
would  have  served  me  until  the  day  of  the  tempest,  whereas 
the  thin  vapor  upon  which  I  had  built  sunk  of  itself  without 
being  once  assailed.  Suffice  it  to  say  that,  as  my  fears  sub- 
sided and  my  pride  increased,  my  prayers  became  more  and 
more  a  matter  of  form,  until  at  length  they  ceased  alto- 
gether, and  except  that  I  believed  in  the  being  of  a  God, 
and  continued  to  see  a  beauty  in  moral  virtue,  I  became,  in 
thought  and  feeling  and  action,  the  same  man  I  had  for^ 
merly  been. 

"  In  the  working  season  of  the  two  following  years  I 
wrought  and  resided  at  Conon-side,  —  a  gentleman's  seat 
and  farmsteadings,  situated  on  a  bank  of  the  Elver  Conon, 
near  where  it  falls  into  the  Cromarty  Frith.  When  there, 
there  was  no  one  for  whose  good  opinion  I  cared  a  pin 
within  twenty  miles  of  me,  so  I  felt  myself  at  liberty  to  do 
or  say  whatever  I  thought  proper.  In  a  short  time  I  be- 
came a  favorite  with  my  brother  workmen.  "  He  is  a  good- 
natured,  honest,  knowing  fellow,"  they  would  say,  "but 
desperately  careless  of  Church."  This  was  just  the  char- 
acter I  wished  to  bear ;  as  for  Church  attendance,  I  thought 
it  rather  a  dubious  virtue.  Indeed,  I  had  seen  too  much  of 
the  prejudices  of  mankind,  and  knew  too  little  of  true 
Christianity,  to  think  otherwise. 

"  When  at  Conon-side,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  studying 
several  characters  of  the  grave,  serious  cast,  but  the  knowl- 


HISTORY    OF    HIS   MIND.  207 

edge  of  them  which  I  acquired  there  did  me  no  good.    One, 

a  Mr.  M ,  was  a  man  of  a  grave,  taciturn  humor,  whose 

definition  of  the  word  '  Christian '  would  be,  as  I  appre- 
hended, '  a  hearer  of  the  gospel  for  Mr.  McDonald's  sake.' 
He  was  exceeding  reserved  and  unsocial  in  his  manners,  and 
little  loved  by  his  fellow- workmen.  Once  or  twice  I  have 
seen  him  grow  very  angry  when  some  parts  of  the  conduct 
of  his  favorite  preacher  were  censured,  —  censured,  too,  as 
I  thought,  with  reason.  There  was  another  of  the  workmen 
with  whom  I  wrought,  who  was  of  the  grave,  serious  cast. 
He  contributed  quarterly  to  the  support  of  the  Bible  So- 
ciety, was  regular  in  his  attendance  at  church,  and  reproved 
swearing  or  indecent  language  every  time  he  chanced  to 
hear  it  among  his  companions.  But  it  did  not  escape  my 
observation  that  this  man  was  so  censorious  that  not  even 
his  brother  saint,  Mr.  M ,  was  exempted  from  the  sever- 
ity of  his  animadversions,  and  so  proud  of  his  purity  of 
life  that  the  errors  and  misconduct  of  others  afforded 
him  pleasure.  Perhaps  he  regarded  them  as  foils  to  the 
virtues  he  possessed. 

"  Besides  these  two  there  were  some  others  who  made  a 
profession  of  religion  with  whom  I  became  partially  ac- 
quainted ;  but  the  tenor  of  their  lives  was  ill  qualified  to 
impress  my  mind  with  a  high  opinion  of  the  sanctifying 
influences  of  Christianity.  One  was  a  hard,  austere  man, 
of  obtuse  feelings,  who  seemed  determined,  whatever  he 
thought  of  the  world  to  come,  to  make  the  most  he  could 
of  the  present ;  a  second  was  silly  and  weak  ;  and  a  third 
was  what  I  termed  a  Sabbath  Christian,  —  that  is,  one  who 
attends  church,  calls  the  preacher  precious  man,  can  tell  a 
great  many  of  the  strange  legends  of  the  Scottish  Church, 
and  reprobates  the  poor  wretches  who  prefer  common  sense 
to  fanaticism.  And  are  these  men  Christians  ?  thought  I. 
I  have  often  heard  divines  bid  that  part  of  their  congrega- 


208  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

tions  which  they  termed  men  of  the  world  look  at  the  life 
of  the  Christian,  and  grow  convinced  of  the  power  and 
truth  of  Christianity  by  that  example  which  is  superior  to 
precept.  I  have  obeyed  them.  I  have  observed  his  actions, 
and  through  these  actions  have  striven  to  discover  his  mo- 
tives, and  what  have  I  found?  In  good  truth,  the  philoso- 
pher who  sees  clearly  that  he  who  believes  and  he  who  does 
not  believe,  only  differ  in  that  the  one  practises  the  grave 
and  the  other  the  gay  vices  of  humanity,  may  well  laugh  at 
the  pretensions  of  these  divines,  and  tell  them  that  they 
either  speak  of  they  know  not  what,  or  wilfully  deceive  be- 
cause it  is  their  interest  to  do  so. 

"  I  remember  one  Sunday,  after  my  companions  had  gone 
to  church,  and  I  remained  behind,  as  was  my  custom,  that, 
to  pass  away  the  time,  I  took  a  solitary  walk  in  the  woods 
of  Conon-side.  The  day  was  pleasant,  but,  from  a  kind  of 
nervous  melancholy  which  hangs  pretty  often  on  my  spirits, 
and  is,  as  I  believe,  constitutional,  I  could  not  enjoy  it.  I 
felt  quite  unhappy,  and  after  having  had  recourse  to  every 
species  of  wonted  amusement,  sat  down  on  a  green  knoll, 
in  despair  of  enjoying  solitude  for  that  day.  A  train  of  the 
darkest  thoughts  began  to  rise  and  pass  through  my  mind. 
I  looked  upon  what  I  had  done  in  the  past,  I  thought  of 
the  unhappiness  of  the  present,  I  formed  surmises  of  the 
future.  There  was  a  voice  from  within  which  incessantly 
whispered  in  my  ear,  '  You  are  doing  wrong !  you  are 
doing  wrong  !  and  how  then  can  you  expect  pleasure  ? '  and 
so  miserable  did  I  feel  from  these  cogitations  and  these  ques- 
tionings, that  I  started  from  my  seat,  and  strove  to  dissi- 
pate them  by  strong  bodily  exertion.  In  a  few  hours  after, 
my  spirits  had  regained  their  usual  tone,  and  I  could  look 
back  upon  what  I  had  felt,  and  say,  '  Have  I  experienced 
what  men  call  an  awakened  conscience?  What,  then,  is 
conscience  ?  The  breast  of  the  murderer  and  the  dishonor- 


SOUL-STRIVINGS.  209 

able,  mean  man  may  well  be  the  haunts  of  remorse ;  but 
surely,  with  one  who  neither  does  nor  wishes  any  man  ill, 
conscience  is  but  the  ashes  of  early  prejudices  raked  to- 
gether by  a  disordered  imagination.' 

"  In  the  latter  end  of  the  autumn  of  this  year  (1822)  I 
wrought  and  resided  at  Pointzfield  for  several  weeks.  My 
constitution  is  naturally  delicate,  and  by  building  in  stormy 
weather  on  a  wet,  marshy  spot  of  ground,  I  caught  a  severe 
cold,  which  hung  about  me  for  several  weeks ;  I  felt  my 
strength  wasting  away ;  my  breast  became  the  seat  of  a 
dull,  oppressive  pain,  and,  imagining  I  was  becoming  con- 
sumptive, I  began  seriously  to  think  of  death.  So  assured 
was  I  at  this  time  of  approaching  dissolution  that  even 
through  the  perspective  of  hope  I  could  only  look  forward 
on  a  few  short  months  of  life,  and,  as  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  doubt  of  a  separate  existence  of  soul  or  of  a  judg- 
ment according  to  deeds  done  in  the  body,  I  began  seriously 
to  think  of  a  preparation  for  death.  But  how  was  this  prep- 
aration to  be  made?  I  knew  prayer  to  be  the  only  lan- 
guage by  which  the  sinner  could  intercede  with  the  Deity 
for  pardon  ;  but  then  experience  had  shown  me  how  unable 
I  was  of  myself  to  bring  my  mind  into  the  frame  of  devo- 
tion, or  to  preserve  that  frame  unchanged  when  it  was 
produced  by  fear,  disgust,  and  the  mingling  dictates  of 
reason.  At  length  I  bethought  me  of  an  expedient  which  I 
hoped  would  preserve  me  from  that  falling  off  or  apostatiz- 
ing, of  which  I  had  experience  two  years  before ;  for, 
awakening  the  sincere  fervency  of  feeling  which  my  expe- 
dient was  to  render  lasting,  I  had  before  me  the  fear  of 
death.  For  the  three  previous  years,  when  I  had  freely 
and  seriously  pledged  my  word  in  a  matter  of  importance, 
to  any  of  my  brother  men,  I  had  a  pride  of  rigidly  adhering 
to  it.  From  this  I  concluded  that,  were  I  to  pledge  my- 
self to  God  by  oath,  I  would  have  a  restraining  bond  upon 


210  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

me  strong  enough  to  preserve  me  for  the  future  from  known 
sin.  I  would  thus  be  shut  up  by  every  principle  of  honor 
to  serve  God,  —  of  loving  him  I  had  no  idea.  I  made  and 
took  my  vow  to  be  I  knew  not  what,  called  God  to  witness 
it,  and  for  a  few  following  days  persisted  in  praying  twice 
a  day.  But  prayer  soon  became  an  irksome  duty ;  proud 
thoughts  over  which  I  had  no  control,  and  strong  desires 
that  would  not  be  repressed  by  a  few  light  words,  came 
rushing  on  my  mind  in  a  mingled  torrent,  and  swept  before 
them  every  vain  resolve.  To  add  to  their  strength  my 
health  began  to  amend,  and  it  not  only  appeared  an  im- 
practicable, but  even  a  foolish,  thing  to  strive  any  longer 
to  be  religious. 

"  I  passed  the  winter  of  this  year  and  the  spring  of  the 
following  one  at  home,  and  there  became  acquainted  with 
an  old  companion  of  my  uncles.  He  had  resided  at  Edin- 
burgh for  many  years,  and,  though  a  clever,  was  neither  a 
steady  nor  respectable  man,  but  for  the  sake  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  his  character,  which  was  eccentric  in  the 
extreme,  I  courted  his  company  and  conversation.  At 
Edinburgh  he  had  been  a  member  of  one  of  those  deistical 
clubs  so  common  in  large  towns ;  and,  by  a  natural  quick- 
ness, and  from  the  habit  of  speaking  at  their  meetings,  had 
acquired  the  faculty  of  arguing  extempore  with  a  good  deal 
of  skill.  My  uncles,  whose  principles  and  opinions  were  in 
almost  every  particular  the  reverse  of  his,  impressed  by 
early  recollections,  still  continued  attached  to  him,  but,  as 
might  be  expected,  frequently  attacked  opinions  which  he 
was  by  no  means  slow  to  defend.  The  doctrine  of  predes- 
tination, that  hobby-horse  of  disputants,  was  brought  fre- 
quently on  the  carpet,  as  was  also  the  doctrine  of  universal, 
as  opposed  to  partial,  redemption.  At  first  I  merely 
listened  to  these  verbal  controversies,  but  seeing  that  my 
uncles,  though  well-grounded  in  the  doctrines  of  Chris- 


A    DEISTICAL    FRIEND.  211 

tianity,  were  ill-qualified  to  answer  every  objection  raised 
against  it  by  a  veteran  quibbler,  out  of  a  desire  of  assisting 
them,  I  set  myself  to  examine  the  different  bearings  of  the 
doctrines  they  defended.  Predestination  first  engaged  me. 
I  read  all  that  is  said  of  it  in  Scripture,  drew  conclusions 
from  the  prescience  of  God,  and  from  Plato's  Dialogues  of 
Socrates,  and  some  other  philosophic  writers,  and  endeav- 
ored to  produce  data  from  whence  to  show  that  predestina- 
tion is  not  a  doctrine  peculiar  to  revealed  religion.  I  had 
long  looked  upon  controversial  divinity  as  the  worst  kind 
of  nonsense ;  and  since  my  argumentative  conversation 
with  my  cousin  G.  had  entertained  an  antipathy  against 
verbal  controversy  of  every  kind  ;  this,  added  to  a  hesitat- 
ing manner  of  speech,  and  a  consciousness  of  an  inability 
to  preserve  my  ideas  from  becoming  confused  when  I  waxed 
warm  on  any  subject,  after  all  my  preparation,  withheld  me 
from  attacking  my  brother  deist. 

"  Had  any  one  told  me  at  that  time  that  I  was  in  reality 
brother  in  belief  to  a  deist,  I  would  have  complained  of 
injustice.  In  fact,  my  opinions  were  so  wavering  that, 
with  a  due  regard  to  truth,  I  could  not  tell  what  I  did  or 
did  not  believe.  I  saw  there  were  two  schools  of  deism, — 
the  high  and  the  low.  Epicurus  of  the  ancient  philosophers 
and  Hume  of  the  modern,  men  who,  while  they  remained 
sceptical  on  the  subject  of  future  rewards  and  punishments, 
and  of  the  Providence  of  God,  cherished  virtue  for  its  own 
sake,  both  by  example  and  precept,  I  regarded  as  members 
of  the  first ;  while  I  looked  upon  the  brood  of  half-bred 
wits,  who,  with  Paine  at  their  head,  battled  with  religion 
because  it  gave  a  deeper  and  stronger  sanction  to  the  laws 
of  morality,  as  the  masters  of  the  second.  The  leaders  of 
the  former  I  considered  to  be  good,  wise  men  (indeed,  I 
am  still  readier  to  regret  their  defects  than  censure  them), 
while  the  whole  body  which  composed  the  latter  I  regarded 


212  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

as  a  band  of  conspirators  against  all  that  is  good  or  noble 
in  human  nature.  I  looked  upon  the  Edinburgh  deist  as  a 
pupil  of  the  school  last  described ;  indeed,  the  irregularity 
of  the  life  he  led  lent  this  opinion  a  strong  sanction. 

"  The  more  I  thought  and  read,  the  more  wavering  and 
unsettled  my  opinions  became.  I  began  to  see  that  the 
precepts  inculcated  by  the  Christian  faith  are  equal  if  not 
superior  in  purity  to  those  taught  in  the  school  of  philoso- 
phy ;  but  then  the  strange,  mysterious  doctrines  which 
mingled  with  these  precepts  had  in  them  something  repul- 
sive. I  could  believe  in  many  things  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand ;  but  how  could  I  believe  in  things  evidently  not 
beyond  the  reach  of  reason,  but  directly  opposed  to  it  ?  I 
could  believe  that  man  is  either  a  free  agent,  or  chained 
down  by  the  decrees  of  God  to  a  predestined  line  of  con- 
duct ;  but  how  could  I  believe  that  he  was  at  once  free  and 
the  child  of  necessity?  And  yet  the  contradiction  (as  it 
appeared)  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  doctrine  of  the  Bible. 

"  I  regarded  the  main  doctrine  of  Christianity  as  one  of 
those  which  lie  not  beyond  the  reach  of  reason,  but,  as  I 
have  said,  are  directly  opposed  to  it.  How,  thought  I,  can 
one  man  who  is  a  criminal  be  pardoned  and  rewarded  because 
another  who  is  none  has,  after  meriting  reward,  been  pun- 
ished ?  How  can  it  be  said  that  he  who  thus  pardons  the 
guilty  and  punishes  the  innocent  is  not  only  just,  but  that 
he  even  does  this  that  he  may  become  just  and  merciful  ? 
It  appeared  still  more  strange  than  even  this  that  the  only 
way  of  becoming  virtuous  was,  not  by  doing  good  and  vir- 
tuous deeds,  but  by  believing  that  Christ's  death  was  an 
atonement  for  sin,  and  his  merits  a  fund  of  righteousness 
for  which  they  who  thus  believed  were  to  be  rewarded. 
Certainly,  thought  I,  if  the  Christian  religion  be  not  a  true 
one,  it  is  not  a  cunningly  devised  fable ;  for  its  mysteries 
are  either  not  far  enough  removed  from  the  examination  of 


DOCTRINES    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  213 

the  rational  faculties,  or  too  directly  opposed  to  the  conclu- 
sions which  they  must  necessarily  form.  The  mystery  of 
the  Trinity  I  regarded  as  an  exception  to  this  ;  the  nature 
of  God  is  so  little  known  to  man  that  I  could  neither 
believe  nor  doubt  it." 

In  this  abrupt  and  unsatisfactory  manner  the  document 
ends.  It  will  appear  in  the  sequel  that  evidence  exists  in 
other  quarters,  enabling  us  to  trace  the  essential  facts  of 
Miller's  spiritual  history. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

POVERTY,   HONORABLE    AND    DISHONORABLE FIRST    IMPRES- 
SIONS   OF    THE    REV.    MR.     STEWART  LOOKS    INTO    HIS 

FATHER'S    BIBLE  —  THE    SELFISH    THEORY    OF    MORALS  — 
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY     MUSINGS  —  IMPORTANT     COMMENT    UPON 

AND    ADDITION   TO   THESE   TEN   DAYS  AFTERWARDS THE 

CHANGE  EFFECTED  IN  HIS  SPIRITUAL  STATE. 

NE  or  two  threads  of  our  biographical  narrative 
have  slipped  through  our  hands,  and  it  will  be 
necessary  to  gather  them  up  before  proceeding 
with  the  delineation  of  Miller's  religious  experi- 
ence. Swanson,  as  we  saw,  alluded  to  his  prospects  of 
pecuniary  support,  and  exulted  in  his  trust  in  God.  This 
was  in  October.  In  November  Miller  replied.  "  You  tell 
me  that  you  are  becoming  (like  myself)  very  poor,  but  you 
also  inform  me  that  you  are  very  happy.  I  know  by  expe- 
rience that  simple,  unambitious  poverty  and  happiness  are 
not  such  enemies  as  is  generally  imagined  ;  but,  oh,  how  I 
detest  the  mean,  cringing  poverty  that  prompts  a  man  of 
God's  forming  to  cast  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  brother 
man ;  that  compels  him  to  smile  at  the  stupid,  cruel  jibe 
that  wounds  him  ;  that  teaches  his  knee  to  bend  and  ties  his 
tongue.  This  is  poverty  of  spirit.  I  merely  detest  it ;  but 
I  cannot  think  of  those  mean  insults  which,  coming  from 
the  little  great,  make  poverty  truly  bitter,  without  wishing 
for  the  return  of  the  earliest  days  of  barbarism.  My  master 
in  the  rudest  stage  of  society  would  have,  at  least,  two  of 

2U 


MR.    STEWART.  '  215 

nature's  advantages,  he  would  be  brave  and  strong ;  but,  in 
its  present  state,  he  may  be  at  once  an  idiot,  coward,  and 
knave." 

Swanson  had  asked  for  information  about  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Stewart.  The  account  of  his  relations  with  his  parish- 
ioners, and  the  estimate  of  his  character,  which  Miller  gives 
in  reply,  are  very  different  from  what  he  would  subsequently 
have  written.  "  When,  after  leaving  Edinburgh,  I  returned 
to  this  place,  I  scarce  met  one  of  my  old  acquaintances 
who  did  not  tell  me  of  the  extraordinaiy  parts  and  merits 
of  their  new  minister.  He  was  so  humble,  said  his  admir- 
ers, that  he  did  not,  like  many  foolish  parsons,  speak  of 
the  priesthood  as  a  body  of  good,  perfect  men,  who  were 
sorely  toiling  to  convert  vile  lay  sinners,  —  no,  when  he 
spoke  of  sinners,  he  said  You  and  I.  His  sermons,  too, 
with  all  the  solidity  of  orthodox}^  itself,  were  so  interesting 
and  eloquent  that  no  one  could  sleep  in  his  church.  The 
very  reserve  of  his  character  was  praised  ;  it  was  bashful- 
ness  ;  it  was  modesty.  This  general  opinion  has  now  given 
place  to  another  as  general.  His  humility,  it  is  said,  was 
affected,  for  his  reserve  is  not  that  of  bashfulness,  but  of 
pride.  No  one  gives  less  to  the  poor,  or  is  fonder  of  money. 
His  very  sermons  are  now  different  from  what  they  were 
once,  —  they  still  display  talent,  but  they  are  cold  and 
unanimated,  and  ill-calculated  to  rouse  or  comfort  his  hear- 
ers. These  two  contrary  opinions  were  and  are  those  enter- 
tained by  the  middle  class  of  Mr.  Stewart's  parishioners ; 
do  not  imagine,  however,  that  either  of  them  in  every  par- 
ticular was  or  is  mine.  I  know  too  little  of  his  character 
as-  a  man  to  say  whether  he  be  generous  or  niggardly,  proud 
or  humble  ;  but,  as  a  minister,  I  believe  I  may  dare  decide 
of  his  merits.  His  sermons  are  the  offspring  of  natural 
talent  polished  by  learning.  Few  men  understand  better 
what  subjects  are  susceptible  of  that  eloquence  which  at 


216  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

once  engages  the  understandings,  imaginations,  and  hearts 
of  men.  His  views  of  a  subject  are  generally  clear,  and 
his  styl'e,  though  apparently  unstudied,  is  pure  and  express- 
ive. But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  an  unequal,  ofttimes  a 
careless,  preacher.  His  sermons  were  such  as  I  have  de- 
scribed only  for  the  first  ten  or  twelve  months  after  he 
received  the  presentation  to  this  parish.  At  particular 
seasons,  such  as  the  time  of  a  sacrament,  he  still  exerts 
himself,  and  I  am  cheered  by  flashes  of  that  spirit  the 
blaze  of  which  once  delighted  me  ;  but  his  common,  every- 
day discourses  are  dry  and  doctrinal.  They  address  them- 
selves to  <the  understanding,  but  not  to  the  heart.  The 
knowledge  they  display  of  human  nature  is  often  vague  and 
genera],  and  such  as  is  to  be  taught  b}^  books.  Of  that  partic- 
ular and  striking  kind  which  is  to  be  acquired  by  the  study  of 
our  own  hearts,  or  of  the  characters  of  others,  there  is  to  be 
found  in  them  but  few  instances.  That  cold  reserve  of 
character,  which  has  now  become  so  disgusting  to  Mr. 
Stewart's  parishioners,  is  surely  an  unfortunate  thing  in  a 
minister  of  the  gospel.  In  a  private  individual,  though 
often  feared  and  reviled,  it  has  its  apology ;  but  it  has 
none  in  the  man  who  is  bound  down  both  by  the  command 
of  God,  and  every  principle  of  honesty  recognized  among 
men,  to  devote  his  whole  life  to  the  gaining  of  souls  from 
Satan.  What  is  merely  a  singularity  in  the  parishioner  is 
a  crime  in  the  minister." 

Of  the  seriousness  of  Miller's  mood  at  this  time  we  have 
traces  in  his  correspondence  with  his  other  friend.  He  has, 
he  tells  William  Ross,  but  two  friends,  and  can  as  ill 
afford  to  lose  one  of  them  as  he  could  to  lose  u  an  eye  or  an 
arm." — "  Alas !  Willie,"  he  says  in  a  letter  of  December 
8th,  "  whether  wise  or  foolish,  we  are  no  longer  boys  ;  last 
October  a  note  of  my  father's  handwriting  in  the  first  page 
of  the  big  Bible,  which  was  once  his  and  is  now  mine,  in- 


•NEW-YEAR'S  DAY.  217 

formed  me  that  I  had  then  completed  my  twenty-fourth 
year.  Since  the  first  page  of  that  Bible  furnishes  me  with 
a  fact  of  so  serious  a  nature,  do  you  think  it  would  be  lost 
time  should  I  spend  a  few  minutes  every  day  in  considering 
the  facts  which  are  laid  down  in  its  other  pages  ?  My  friend, 
J.  Swanson,  assures  me  it  would  not." 

In  a  letter  to  Swanson  of  December  15th,  we  meet  with 
the  following  decided  repudiation  of  what  is  called  the  self- 
ish theory  of  morals  :  u  Are  you  still,"  he  asks,  "  a  member 
of  that  school  of  philosophy  which  resolves  every  feeling 
expressive  of  affection  into  mere  selfishness  ?  I  hope  not. 
I  have,  ever  since  I  heard  of  it,  hated  it  as  heartily  as  ever 
I  did  any  of  the  schools  which  perplexed  me  in  the  days  of 
my  boyhood,  and  the  more  I  examine  myself  by  patiently 
tracing  the  connection  which  subsists  between  my  feelings 
and  the  circumstances  which  excite  them,  the  more  am  I 
convinced  that  selfishness  does  not  supply  all  the  ties  of 
that  connection.  .  .  .  I  hate  the  selfish  school  of  phi- 
losophy. I  wish  I  could  hate  it  as  practically  as  St.  Paul 
did." 

On  the  1st  of  January,  1827,  he  writes  to  Ross.  His 
reflections  are  not  of  a  jocund  character :  "  The  first  sun 
of  the  year  has  not  yet  risen,  but  I  have  trimmed  and 
lighted  my  lamp,  and  set  myself  down  to  write  by  the 
assistance  of  its  little  red  flame.  .  .  .  Many  are  the 
reflections  which  a  closing  and  an  opening  year  suggest. 
You  have  often  seen  that  Egyptian  symbol,  an  adder  hold- 
ing its  tail  in  its  mouth ;  and  I  am  sure  that  you  have 
observed  that  the  slender  circular  body  of  that  adder  is  but 
a  dull-looking  thing,  varied  as  it  only  is  by  a  slight  dif- 
ference in  bulk,  or  a  still  slighter  difference  in  the  loops  of 
its  scaly  coat ;  while,  upon  that  part  of  it  where  its  head 
and  tail  meet,  the  eye  can  rest  with  pleasure.  It  is  said 
that  this  adder  is  a  symbol  of  the  year ;  and  certainly  as 


218  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

the  eye  is  attracted  more  by  its  head  and  tail  than  by  any 
part  of  its  body,  so  the  attention  of  the  moralist  is  excited 
more  by  the  beginning  and  close  of  the  year  than  by  any 
of  its  intermediate  parts.  The  moralist,  do  I  say?  Alas  ! 
true  moralists  are  by  no  means  common  characters,  yet 
serious  reflection  at  such  a  season  as  this  is  not  confined  to 
a  class  of  men  so  extremely  rare.  I  remember  that  at  a 
stage  of  life  little  removed  from  childhood,  on  a  New- Year's 
day,  not  all  the  halfpence  my  friends  gave  me  could  make 
me  happy.  A  certain  vague  regret  for  the  days  of  sport 
that  had  passed  away,  and  a  fearful  anticipation  of  the  days 
of  care  and  toil  which  I  knew  were  coming  on,  conspired 
to  cast  a  gloom  over  my  mind.  But  in  this  the  boy  indulged 
in  a  folly  not  always  avoided  by  the  man.  When  I  looked 
at  the  head  and  tail  of  the  snake,  I  thought  of  the  sting 
which  in  reality  both  of  them  bear,  but  not  of  the  antidote 
growing  near.  I  now  perceive  that  it  was  unwise  thus  to 
suffer  the  clouds  of  unavailing  regret  and  dismal  antici- 
pation to  cast  their  shade  over  my  enjoyments.  He  who 
taught  that  there  is  but  one  thing  truly  needful  taught  also 
that  '  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  It  is  an 
opinion  of  mine,  that  all  the  drinking  and- feasting  so  com- 
mon at  this  season  were  at  first  resorted  to  for  the  sake  of 
dissipating  gloomy  thoughts  like  those  with  which  I  was 
once  perplexed.  The  more  I  think  of  this,  the  more  I  am 
confirmed  of  its  truth.  Judging  from  experience,  it  appears 
reasonable  enough  that  the  man  who  is  unprepared  to  die 
should  strive  to  forget  that  he  is  mortal ;  but  it  is  monstrous 
to  suppose  that,  deeming,  as  most  do,  death  the  greatest 
evil,  he  should  yet  joy  at  its  approach.  If  an  opening  year 
warned  a  boy  of  the  toils  which  awaited  him,  it  may  surety 
whisper  to  men  of  death.  And  it  does  !  Get  one  of  the 
most  stupid  of  those  who  are  revellers  at  this  season  to 
make  a  single  moral  remark,  and  that  one  will  be,  that  he 


MORAL    REFLECTIONS.  219 

*  is  now  by  a  year  nearer  his  grave  than  he  was  twelve  months 
ago.  From  reflections  like  these,  though  custom,  by  giving 
its  sanction  to  the  festivities  of  the  season,  has,  after  its 
usual  manner,  obscured  every  circumstance  of  its  own 
beginning  and  growth,  I  can  regard  that  loud  huzza  which 
has  penetrated  even  to  this  recess,  as  that  of  madness 
raised  to  drown  the  deep,  low  murmurings  of  thought. 
Many  are  the  reflections  which  a  closing  and  opening  year 
suggest,  and  yet  the  writer  who  would  set  himself  to  collect 
and  arrange  these  would  find  that  there  is  little  to  be  said 
of  the  years  which  commenced  and  concluded  seven  hours 
ago,  which  has  not  been  already  said  (perhaps  well  said) 
of  some  preceding  ones.  .  .  .  But  in  morals,  regarded 
as  the  rules  of  life,  there  is  nothing  commonplace.  Filled 
with  a  desire  of  making  new  acquirements  and  a  love  of 
novelty,  man  is  generally  moving  onward  in  knowledge,  — 
there  is  a  law  in  his  very  nature  which  urges  him  on  ;  but 
for  that  which  is  morally  good  he  has  no  natural  inclination. 
Before  he  quit  his  vicious  habits  he  must  be  threatened  with 
the  horrors  of  eternal  punishment,  —  nay,  perhaps  made  to 
feel  in  conviction  a  foretaste  of  these  horrors.  Before  he 
commence  a  course  of  virtuous  actions,  he  must  be  pre- 
sented with  the  strongest  motives,  assurance  of  eternal 
peace  and  joy,  and,  what  is  necessarily  superior  to  any  mo- 
tive, he  must  be  powerfully  assisted  by  the  Spirit  of  God. 
Ah,  my  dear  friend,  there  can  surely  be  no  commonplace  in 
morals,  whether  by  the  word  we  mean  virtuous  actions,  or 
the  precepts  which  enjoin  or  the  considerations  which  en- 
force them.  The  uncertainty  of  time  and  the  certainty  of 
death,  the  guilt  and  madness  of  misspending  time,  and  the 
sure  coming  of  judgment,  all  of  these  are  topics  extremely 
commonplace  for  an  author,  but  truths  which  to  every  human 
creature  are  important  in  the  highest  degree.  I  cannot  look 
back  upon  the  past  year  with  a  feeling  of  pleasure,  and  yet 


220  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

I  should  look  upon  it  with  one  of  thankfulness.  I  am  cer- 
tain I  have  not  marked  it  by  a  single  meritorious  deed,  and 
yet,  by  the  good  mercy  of  God,  I  have  been  preserved  from 
actions  notoriously  vicious.  I  have  at  times,  I  trust,  by 
his  help,  cleared  my  heart  of  its  viler  affections,  and  re- 
pressed its  evil  desires.  I  have  besought  his  assistance, 
and  experienced  within  me  the  workings  of  gratitude.  But, 
alas  !  at  other  times  I  have  wilfully  opened  the  floodgates  of 
passion  ;  I  have  courted  rather  than  resisted  temptation  ;  I 
have  apologized  for  known  sin  in  my  heart ;  and  in  thought 
many  times  oftener  than  once  indeed  have  I  committed 
evil." 

Thus  by  the  "  little  red  flame,"  in  the  chill  hour  before 
the  dawn,  on  the  first  day  of  1827,  does  Hugh  Miller  jot 
down  for  his  friend  his  stern  and  sad  conmmnings  with 
himself.  The  drear  glimmer  of  the  lamp-light  is  traceable 
on  the  page,  and  the  remarks  on  the  festivities  of  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year's  day  are  too  harshly  puritanic  for  his 
sunnier  and  wiser  hour ;  but  the  severity  of  his  self-judg- 
ment, and  the  deep  and  humble  piety  which  pervades  the 
letter,  makes  it  valuable  as  a  revelation  of  his  state  of 
mind  at  the  time.  Let  us  therefore  proceed :  — 

"  In  that  awful  day  when  things  shall  appear  as  they 
really  are,  how  shall  I  apologize  for  the  evil  I  have  com- 
mitted in  that  portion  of  time  which  was  measured  out  by 
the  past  year  ?  The  more  I  consider  the  more  clearly  do  I 
see  that  the  evil  I  have  committed  in  it  was  of  a  positive, 
the  good  merely  of  a  negative,  kind.  All  that  I  can  urge 
in  my  defence  is,  that  I  might  have  entered  still  deeper 
into  evil  than  I  have  done.  But  will  this  defence  serve? 
Were  it  to  serve  in  an  earthly  court,  the  vilest  criminal 
could  with  justice  allege  it ;  and  will  God,  in  whom  dwell- 
eth,  and  from  whom  cometh,  all  wisdom,  accept  it  from  his 
creatures  ?  Alas  !  hope  itself  cannot  build  on  a  foundation 


RETROSPECT.  221 

like  this.  If  mankind  have  no  better  plea  they  are  surely 
lost ;  yet  self-love,  in  the  very  face  of  reason,  whispereth 
the  contrary.  Ah,  William,  there  can  be  no  greater  de- 
ceiver than  self-love,  —  no  flatterer  more  dangerous,  —  for 
there  is  none  we  suspect  less.  Often,  when  we  think  of  a 
future  state  of  being,  of  an  Almighty  Judge,  and  of  our 
own  appearance  before  him,  in  our  imaginations  we  not 
only  picture  that  Judge  as  merciful,  but  we  even  conceive 
of  him  as  possessed  of  feelings  and  .partialities,  and  conse- 
quently of  weaknesses,  like  ourselves.  We  deem  him  to  be 
One  who  will  look  upon  our  faults  with  the  same  favorable 
eye  with  which  we  ourselves  regard  them,  —  as  One  who  will 
give  us  credit  for  the  merits  which  we  think  we  possess. 
Alas  !  we  do  not  consider  that  one  half  of  these  imagined 
merits  are  fictitious,  the  children  of  our  fancy ;  and  that 
the  other  half  of  them  consist  of  natural  talents  and  pro- 
pensities which  have,  for  wise  ends,  been  given  us,  but 
which  we  have  misapplied.  And  what,  then,  remains? 
As  I  have  said  already,  I  must  say  again,  that  man's  best 
plea,  if  he  ground  his  defence  on  works,  is,  that  he  has  not 
committed  all  the  evil  which  he  might  have  committed ; 
and  I  must  say  again  that,  if  mankind  have  no  better  plea 
than  this,  they  are  surely  lost.  But,  dear  William,  Christi- 
anity is  not  the  cunningly  devised  fable  I  once  thought  it. 
There  is  a  Saviour,  and  he  who  believes  upon  him  with 
that  true,  earnest  belief  which  conquereth  evil,  shall,  for 
the  sake  of  the  sufferings  of  that  Saviour,  have  his  sins  for- 
given him,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  righteousness  be  re- 
warded. I  once  thought  this  an  absurd  doctrine ;  now, 
though  I  have  more  experience  of  men  and  things  than  I 
ever  had  before,  and  though  my  reason  has  strengthened, 
and  is,  as  I  hope,  still  strengthening,  I  can  regard  it  as  a 
wonderful  display  of  the  wisdom  of  God. 

"  Many  are  the  reflections  which  an  opening  and  a  clos- 


222  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ing  year  suggest !  How  impenetrably  dark  is  that  cloud 
which  hangs  over  the  future !  How  dubious  and  uncer- 
tain do  the  half-remembered  incidents  of  the  past  appear ! 
And  what,  since  we  have  so  little  left  us  to  bear  witness  of 
the  past,  —  since  we  have  nothing  to  assure  us  that  in  this 
body  the  future  shall  be  ours,  —  what  is  that  present  time 
which  we  dare  challenge  as  our  own?  Is  it  a  day,  an  hour, 
a  minute,  a  moment  ?  No,  it  is  simply  a  line  of  division,  a 
thing  which  has  neither  solidity  nor  extension,  breadth  nor 
thickness.  And  is  this  nonentity  all  we  can  call  our  own? 
Cowley,  in  his  essay  on  the  danger  of  procrastination,  gives 
a  translation  of  an  epigram  of  Martial,  which,  as  it  falls  in 
with  my  present  train  of  thought,  and  is,  of  itself,  very 
ingenious,  I  shall  here  insert.  By-the-by,  I  recommend 
Cowley  to  you  as  an  excellent  and  shrewd  fellow,  who,  if 
you  court  his  company  and  conversation,  will,  I  am  sure, 
give  you  much  pleasure,  and,  perhaps,  some  instruction. 
He  is  a  true  poet,  though  of  a  rare  school.  But  the  epi- 
gram :  — 

"  *  To-morrow  you  will  live,  you  always  cry ; 
In  what  far  country  does  this  morrow  lie? 
That  'tis  so  mighty  long  ere  it  arrive, 
Beyond  the  Indies  does  this  morrow  live  ? 
'Tis  so  far-fetched,  this  morrow,  that  I  fear 
'Twill  be  both  very  old  and  very  dear. 
To-morrow  I  will  live,  the  fool  does  say. 
To-day  itself  s  too  late ;  the  wise  lived  yesterday.' 

"  What  is,  or  where  is,  to-morrow?  is  the  question  of  the 
Roman  epigrammatist.  I  would  in  like  manner  ask  what 
is,  or  rather  what  was,  yesterday?  It  has  left  a  few  marks 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  Yesterday,  a  field  was 
ploughed,  a  house  built,  and  a  grave  dug ;  and  these  marks 
and  scarce  anything  else  make  yesterday  different  from  the 


MORAL   REFLECTIONS.  223 

dream  of  yesternight ;  but  the  grave  must  very  soon  be 
closed,  the  ploughed  field  will  soon  become  a  piece  of  green 
sward,  and  to  Him  with  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  a 
day  it  will  appear  but  a  short  space  when  the  foundations 
of  the  house  will  become  a  piece  of  green  sward  also.  Yet 
things  like  these  are  the  monuments  of  yesterday.  But 
what  is  yesterday  itself?  what  was  it,  rather?  It  was  a 
space  of  time,  measured  by  the.  sun,  which  was  given  to 
men  that  in  it  they  might  prepare  for  death ;  and  instead 
of  preparing  for  death,  the  whole  power  of  their  bodies  and 
every  energy  of  their  souls  have  been  employed  in  building 
and  ploughing  and  in  other  such  occupations,  even  though 
they  saw  graves  opening  and  closing  before  them.  What 
though  those  wasting  monuments  of  yesterday  which  men 
have  raised*  or  inscribed  on  the  face  of  the  earth  were  eter- 
nal, —  what  has  the  soul  of  man  to  do  with  these  external 
things?  If  his  soul  be  immaterial,  as  many  judicious  phi- 
losophers affirm,  then,  though  mysteriously  connected  with 
a  material  body,  it  can  surely  have  no  proper  and  natural 
connection  with  the  earth  in  which  vegetables  grow  or  the 
stones  with  which  houses  are  built.  But  I  am  quaintly 
deducing  a  moral  from  an  uncertainty,  which  I  can  simply 
and  with  ease  deduce  from  a  known  truth.  I  am  also 
speaking  rather  loosely  of  the  particular  provision  to  be 
made  for  the  soul,  and  making  no  allowance  for  that  which 
must  of  necessity  be  made  for  the  body.  Be  it  sufficient 
that  I  mention  the  last,  since  the  proportion  which  the 
interests  of  the  body  bear  to  those  of  the  soul  must  be 
that  which  finite  bears  to  infinite. 

"  The  particular  provision  which  must  be  made  for  the 
soul  is,  as  I  firmly  believe,  specified  in  those  revealed 
books  which  compose  the  Old  and  New  Testaments.  The 
uncertainty  to  which  I  refer  is  the  immateriality  of  the 
soul.  The  truth  —  the  truths,  I  should  rather  say  —  which 


224  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

concern  the  separate  existence  of  the  soul  and  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  body,  are  those  of  God. 

"  And  now  I  will  just  conclude,  for  I  become,  though 
very  serious,  very  tiresome,  by  remarking  that,  since  time 
past  is  little  more  than  a  shadow,  since  time  coming  is 
something  less,  it  is  man's  true  wisdom  to  entrench  himself 
within  himself,  —  not  in  selfishness  ;  it  is  selfishness  which 
prompts  him  to  wander,  and  in  his  wanderings  to  form  con- 
nections with  unfit  objects  such  as  earth  and  stones,  —  not 
in  selfishness,  but  with  a  love  to  God  greater,  and  a  love  to 
his  neighbor  equal  to  that  which  he  bears  to  himself,  en- 
trenching himself  in  a  good  conscience  and  a  rational  (that 
is,  a  scriptural)  hope  of  salvation,  perceiving  that  to 
himself  his  own  soul  is  everything.  And,  dear  William,  is 
it  not  truly  everything?  All  that  to  us  remains  of  the 
past  lies  in  the  storehouses  of  our  memories  or  the  books 
of  our  consciences ;  all  the  surmisings  which  we  form  of 
the  future  are  drawn  from  the  experiences  of  the  past, 
which  we  have  laid  up  in  these  storehouses ;  while  our 
imaginations  sit  retired,  each  in  its  own  recess,  drawing 
pictures  of  these  experiences,  and  of  the  images  which  are 
preserved  along  with  them,  joining  or  disjoining  them  at 
pleasure.  Oh,  how  strange  and  varied  are  the  powers  of 
that  soul  which  is  destined  to  immortality !  It  can  be 
made  of  itself,  just  as  we  deal  with  it,  either  a  heaven  or  a 
hell.  And  now  I  have  done.  No,  not  yet.  I  must,  by 
quoting  Shakespeare,  forestall  some  of  your  remarks. 

"'When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative ; 
And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 
An  hour  by  his  dial.'" 


POSTSCRIPT.  225 

This  remarkable  letter  was  not  sent  away  at  once.  On 
the  10th  of  the  month  Hugh  took  it  up,  and  added  a  few 
words.  The  "thoughts  and  modes  of  expression"  seem, 
he  says,  as  new  to  him  "as  if  they  had  been  found  by  some 
other  person."  From  this  he  infers  that,  if  he  and  his  two 
friends  made  copies  of  their  letters,  the  volume  containing 
them,  if  of  no  great  interest  to  third  parties,  would  be  not 
only  interesting  but  extremely  useful  to  the  correspondents. 
"  You  may  see,"  he  proceeds, "  that  I  am  bent  on  making 
this  experiment."  Miller  carried  out  his  intention  to  a 
Tery  considerable  extent,  and  seems  never,  while  hte  resided 
in  Cromarty,  to  have  grudged  the  labor  of  copying  for 
preservation  what  he  wrote. 

Reverting  to  his  letter,  he  remarks  justly  that  it  is  "  too 
much  in  the  style  which  a  preceptor  would  assume,"  while 
some  of  the  observations  "are  commonplace  and  ill  con- 
nected, and  others  of  them  unpardonably  quaint."  He 
assures  Ross  that  the  preceptorial  tone  is  "  only  in  seem- 
ing, not  in  reality,  and  that  he  does  not  suppose  his  corre- 
spondent to  be  ignorant  of  anything  he  has  written.  "  The 
blockhead  who  sets  himself  up  as  an  adviser  of  others  is 
always  one  who  is  very  far  indeed  beyond  the  power  of 
advice  to  reclaim."  By  way  of  practical  conclusion  to  the 
whole  matter  we  have  the  following :  "  But  why,  you  may 
ask,  why  then  write  me  that  which  I  already  know  ?  The 
question,  though  a  simple,  is  truly  a  hard  one,  and  I  can 
answer  it  in  no  other  way  than  by  saying  that  I  wrote  from 
my  feelings ;  that,  from  seeing  the  connection  which  the 
passing  time  and  my  wasting  life  have  together,  I  was  in- 
sensibly led  to  think  of  time  and  eternity,  life  and  death, 
and,  as  I  was,  when  my  mind  was  thus  occupied,  writing 
my  friend,  to  commit  these  thoughts  to  paper  for  his 
perusal.  But  besides  general  there  are  in  these  pages  par- 
ticular facts.  I  have  told  you  that  what  I  now  believe  I 


226  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

did  not  once  believe,  and  I  have  told  you  how  I  have  deter- 
mined, relying  on  the  help  of  God,  to  make  the  doctrines 
of  Christianity  the  rule  of  my  belief,  its  precepts  that  of 
my  conduct.  Ah,  William,  how  easy  it  is  to  write  of  vir- 
tuous deeds  !  how  difficult  to  perform  them  !  How  easy  is 
it  to  make  a  good  resolve !  how  difficult  to  abide  by  one ! 
But  the  power,  truth,  and  goodness  of  God  are  infinite, 
and  he  has  promised  to  give  his  Holy  Spirit  to  them  that 
ask  it." 

From  this  point  Hugh  Miller  never  receded.  A  profound 
change  had  passed  over  his  spiritual  nature,  a  change  none 
the  less  penetrating  or  pervasive  that  its  operation  had 
taken  place  in  the  silent  chambers  of  his  soul  and  had 
manifested  itself  in  few  external  signs.  Through  no 
paroxysms  of  self-accusing  agony  did  he  make  his  way 
into  the  temple  of  his  spiritual  rest.  By  no  raptures  of 
religious  enthusiasm  did  he  announce  his  arrival  at  his 
Father's  house.  With  the  deliberate  assent  of  reason,  con- 
science, and  feeling  he  embraced  the  Gospel  of  Christ,  and 
solemnly  cast  in  his  lot  with  those  who  confessed  Christ 
before  men.  On  this  point  there  was  to  be  no  further  de- 
bate. By  one  supreme  act  of  resolution  he  defined  the 
future  of  his  soul's  life.  Aided,  as  he  reverently  believed, 
by  the  Divine  Spirit,  he  placed  his  trust  in  the  power, 
truth,  and  goodness  of  the  Infinite  One,  as  revealed  in 
Jesus  of  Nazareth.  But  the  religion  of  Miller,  though 
from  this  time  it  lay  entwined  with  the  deepest  roots  of  his 
being  and  was  the  supreme  and  determining  element  in  his 
character,  came  little  to  the  surface.  It  was  an  unseen 
force,  a  hidden  fire,  influencing  him  at  all  moments,  but 
never  obtruded  on  the  public  eye.  It  would  have  been 
offensive  to  all  the  instincts  of  his  fnodest  and  manly 
nature  to  unveil  the  secret  places  of  his  soul  to  the  general 
observer. 


RELATIONS   WITH   ROSS   AND   SWANSON.  227 

The  reader  may  have  remarked  that,  in  his  letters  to 
Ross,  Miller  assumes  that  part  of  Mentor,  which,  in  the 
other  correspondence,  is  taken  so  decisively  by  Swan  son. 
The  influence  emanates  from  Swanson,  and  Hugh  passes  it 
on  to  Ross.  His  relations  with  the  latter  appear  to  have 
been  of  a  more  tenderly  confidential  character  than  his 
relations  with  the  former. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MILLER    AT    TWENTY-SIX LETTER    TO    ROSS THE     BLESSING 

OF   A    TRUE    FRIEND ROMANCE   THE    SHADOW    OF    RELIGION 

FORMER     AND      PRESENT     VIEWS     OF     RELIGION  FREE- 
THINKERS   WHO    CANNOT    THINK    AT    ALL CHRISTIAN    THE 

HIGHEST     STYLE     OF    MAN PROJECT    OF    GOING    TO    INVER- 
NESS  SCHEMES    OF    SELF-CULTURE. 

'UGH  MILLEU,  then,  as  we  meet  him  on  the 
threshold  of  his  twenty-sixth  summer,  has  passed 
through  the  stages  of  boyhood  and  youth,  with 
their  changes  of  mood  and  development  of  fac- 
ulty, and  acquired  that  fundamental  type  of  character 
which  he  subsequently  retained.  Steadily  prosecuting  the 
enterprise  of  self-culture,  he  is  animated  by  the  purest 
spiritual  ambition,  and  experiences,  in  faculties  invigorated 
and  knowledge  increased,  that  deep  joy  which  is  the 
student's  reward.  He  has  derived,  it  is  scarce  necessary 
to  say,  inestimable  advantage  from  the  completion  of  that 
religious  process  which  had  long  been  going  on  in  his 
mind.  The  event  which  he  would  have  called  his  conver- 
sion, and  pronounced  of  transcendent  importance  in  rela- 
tion to  all  other  occurrences  in  his  life,  has  taken  place. 
He  knows  what  he  believes.  The  atmosphere  of  his  soul 
is  clear  and  calm,  and  the  unfathomable  azure  of  heaven 
touches  with  softening  radiance  all  its  clouds.  Placid  res- 
olution, energy  peacefully  fronting  the  tasks  of  life,  a 
thoughtful  gayety  and  smiling  fortitude,  attest  the  genial 

228 


FRIENDSHIP.  229 

firmness  with  which  he  now  wields  the  sceptre  of  his  mental 
realm. 

A  letter  to  Ross,  dated  May,  1828,  bears  some  reflection 
of  the  peace  and  clearness  to  which  he  had  attained.  This 
letter,  indeed,  does  much  to  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
which  we  had  to  complain  in  last  chapter. 

"  I  was  employed  in  the  church-yard  in  hewing  a  tomb- 
stone, at  which,  as  I  wrought  late  and  hard,  I  fatigued  my- 
self considerably,  when  my  cousin  %George  Munro  brought 
me  your  letter.  There  was  scarce  light  enough  to  read  it, 
the  evening  had  so  far  advanced ;  the  little  I  did  decipher 
of  it,  however,  acted  upon  me  as  a  spell.  I  forgot  the 
labors  of  the  past  day,  and,  in  short,  everything  except  that 
I  was  happy  in  my  friend,  and  had  much  cause  of  gratitude 
to  my  God.  Surely  the  best  of  his  gifts,  if  we  except  the 
great  gift  of  the  Son  and  the  Spirit,  is  a  true  friend ! 
Everything  temporal  must  decay  and  perish.  The  soul,  if 
it  dwells  long  in  the  body,  must  see  many  of  the  things  of 
the  material  world,  upon  which  it  puts  a  value,  because  it 
deems  them  conducive  or  essential  to  its  happiness,  drop- 
ping awa}7,  or  so  changing  as  to  be  no  longer  matters  of 
comfort  or  use.  Even  supposing  them  of  a  less  transient 
or  changeable  nature,  it  is  certain  they  are  completely  lost 
to  the  soul  when  it  separates  from  the  body,  that  piece  of 
earth  being  the  only  medium  through  which  it  can  enjoy 
them.  It  is  not  thus  with  friendship.  The  soul  cannot 
decay,  and  we  have  assurance  from  Scripture  that  that 
which  we  term  death  is  not  to  those  who  love  God  a  death 
to  affection.  I  trust  that  in  the  friend  to  whom  I  now 
write,  I  have  one  whom  I  will  love  and  by  whom  I  shall  be 
beloved  forever.  Is  not  this  a  noble  hope,  and  does  it  not 
deserve  to  be  cherished? 

"  I  have  read  somewhere  (in  Byron's  '  Don  Juan,'  if  I 
mistake  not)  that  virtue  is  but  another  name  for  romance. 


230  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

Unbelief  alone  could  have  made  a  remark  like  this,  but  I 
think  it  so  shrewd  that,  were  there  no  such  thing  as  Revela- 
tion, and  consequently  nothing  like  assurance  of  a  future 
state  of  rewards  and  punishments,  I  would  at  once  assent 
to  its  truth,  so  far  as  what  I  may  term  active  virtue  is  con- 
cerned. I  make  a  distinction  when  I  say  active,  the  pas- 
sive being  essential  to  the  happiness  which  Epicurus  sought 
after.  Believing,  as  I  assuredly  hope  I  do,  in  Revelation, 
I  shall  dare  imitate  this  remark  so  far  as  to  say  that 
romance  is  the  shadow  of  religion,  and  religion  the  truth 
of  romance ;  and,  if  you  have  patience  enough  to  follow 
me,  I  shall  endeavor  to  explain  what  I  mean  when  I  say  so. 
We  both  know  from  experience  the  character  of  the  roman- 
tic man.  He  is  one  who  casts  the  reins  to  his  imagination, 
and  believes  in  all  the  promises  that  are  given  him  by  hope. 
He  is  a  day-dreamer  that  lives  in  an  ideal  world  of  his  own 
creation.  If  of  a  kind,  unsuspicious  temperament,  his 
dreams  are  of  a  peaceful  description.  Love  and  friendship 
are  his  guiding  stars. 

"  *  He  hopes  a  Sylph  in  every  dame, 
A  Pylades  in  every  friend ; ' 

and  the  world  of  his  dreams,  the  world  which  these  noble 
beings  inhabit,  is  so  far  from  resembling  that  one  of  which 
other  people  have  experience,  that  neither  pain,  sorrow, 
accident,  nor  the  evils  which  folly  and  villany  produce,  have 
any  part  in  it.  If  the  visionary  be  of  a  venturous,,  restless 
spirit,  and  imbued  with  love  of  fame,  the  world  presented 
in  his  dreams  is  of  a  less  quiet  and  guiltless  disposition,  but, 
to  balance  its  disadvantages,  he  beholds  himself  as  a  god 
in  that  world.  He  sees  himself  a  conqueror  over  all 
those  whom  he  hates  or  fears,  and  an  object  of  admiration 
to  all  those  whom  he  loves.  Such  are  the  dreams  of 
romance,  and  him  who  indulges  in  such  we  term  romantic. 


ROMANCE   AND    RELIGION.  231 

The  people  of  the  world,  who  in  general  do  not  abound  in 
good  nature,  make  his  folly  the  butt  of  their  ridicule,  and 
the  realities  of  life,  which  to  a  man  of  this  cast  are  misfor- 
tunes, are  sure  to  make  sport  of  it.  But  religion  is  the 
truth  of  romance.  It  promises  more  than  hope  does,  and  it 
performs  all  that  it  promises.  We  are  given  to  know  with 
assurance  that  our  eyes  have  never  seen,  neither  have  our 
hearts  conceived,  a  blessedness  equal  to  that  which  God  has 
prepared  for  those  that  love  him.  The  glories  of  heaven 
are  too  bright  for  our  conceptions,  but  this  we  know,  that 
in  the  future  world  we  shall  associate  with  none  except  the 
good,  and  that  we  shall  love  them,  and  be  beloved  by  them. 
This  is  just  a  fulfilment  of  the  highest  promise  which  hope 
gives  the  visionary.  In  heaven  we  shall  also  hold  close 
communion  with  God.  There  is  nothing  like  this  in  all  the 
provinces  of  romance.  We  know,  too,  that  in  heaven  mis- 
fortune shall  have  no  place,  and  that  we  shall  be  there 
triumphant  over  all  that  we  now  fear  and  all  that  is  evil, 
over  death  and  hell  and  temptation.  As  for  fame,  we  are 
assured  that  there  is  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that 
repenteth.  '  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant,'  is  the 
address  of  the  Omnipotent  to  the  man  who  by  his  works 
has  glorified  His  name.  I  need  not  follow  this  subject 
further ;  I  have  said  enough  to  show  what  I  mean  by  say- 
ing that  romance  is  the  shadow  of  religion,  and  religion  the 
truth  of  romance. 

"  Religion,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
what  the  people  of  the  world  think  it.  Four  years  ago  I 
deemed  the  love  of  God  a  passion  altogether  chimerical. 
When  I  looked  towards  the  sky,  I  saw  that  the  sun  was  a 
glorious  and  sublime  object,  and  a  very  apt  image  of  the 
God  who  had  created  it  and  all  things  ;  but  I  thought  I 
could  as  rationally  love  that  sun  as  I  could  the  invisible 
Being  of  whom  I  deemed  it  the  best  type.  I  found  what  I 


232  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

reckoned  admirable  things  in  the  writings  of  Plato. 
Socrates  I  regarded  as  a  very  excellent,  talented  man  ;  his 
reasonings  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  on  the  love  of 
God,  on  prayer,  and  on  the  nature  of  holiness  and  of  man, 
delighted  me.  But  though  I  never  once  thought  of  bring- 
ing forward  arguments  to  weigh  against  his,  I  could  not 
consider  what  he  taught  in  the  light  of  serious  truths.  I 
felt  the  same  pleasure  in  perusing  his  dialogues,  or  in  read- 
ing fine  moral  poems  and  discourses,  as  I  felt  when  looking 
at  an  elegant  statue  or  picture ;  but  I  thought  as  little  of 
taking  the  precepts  I  found  in  these  pieces  as  rules  to  live 
by  as  I  did  of  paring  my  limbs  or  features  to  the  exact  pro- 
portions of  those  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere  or  the  Hercules 
Farnese.  As  for  the  religion  of  the  New  Testament,  I 
could  not  at  all  admire  it.  Some  of  the  morals  it  inculcated 
I  thought  good,  though  in  the  main  rather  calculated  to 
make  a  patient  than  an  active  man,  and  better  adapted  for 
the  slave  and  the  vanquished  than  for  the  freeman  and  the 
conqueror.  The  scheme  of  Redemption  and  its  consequent 
doctrines  I  regarded  as  peculiarly  absurd.  I  held  it  im- 
possible that  a  man  of  taste  and  judgment  could  in  reality 
be  a  .Christian.  As  for  those  men  who  were  evidently  pos- 
sessed of  both  these  faculties  in  a  high  degree  and  yet  pro- 
fessors of  religion,  I  interpreted  their  seeming  assent  to  its 
dogmas  as  the  effect  of  a  prudence  similar  to  that  which 
made  Plato,  Seneca,  and  some  of  the  other  ancient  philoso- 
phers, profess  a  belief  in  the  mythologic  fables  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  I  was  myself  an  imitator  of  these  men,  and  I 
looked  upon  the  professed  atheist  or  deist,  not  perhaps  with 
as  much  abhorrence  as  the  serious  believer  would  regard 
him  with,  but  with  a  much  higher  contempt ;  for  it  seemed 
to  me  a  thing  childishly  imprudent  for  any  one  to  assume 
the  character  of  a  free-thinker,  when  all  to  be  acquired  by 
opposing  the  current  of  what  I  regarded  as  popular  preju- 


FREE-THINKERS.  233 

t 

dice  was  the  unqualified  hatred  and  detestation  of  nine- 
teen-twentieths  of  one's  countrymen  and  relations.  I  there- 
fore professed,  as  you  will  perhaps  remember,  a  great 
respect  for  religion,  though  always  ready  to  confess  to  any 
one  who  was  seriously  a  Christian  that  I  had  no  experi- 
mental knowledge  of  its  truth.  I  found  the  doctrine  of 
predestination  very  serviceable  as  a  kind  of  shield  to  pro- 
tect me  against  the  advices  (you  may  smile  at  the  term)  of 
such.  You  may  see  from  what  I  have  written  what  it  was 
made  me  think  it  possible  that  your  profession  of  respect 
for  religion  was  insincere  ;  but  you  will"  pardon  me,  as  you 
know  how  natural  it  is  for  a  man  to  judge  his  neighbor  by 
himself. 

"  But  though  misled  for  once  by  this  method  of  judging, 
I  shall  yet  avail  myself  of  it  in  forming  an  opinion  of  that 
formidable  body,  the  men  of  the  world,  so  far  as  their 
regards  for  religion  are  concerned.  My  present  self  takes 
my  former  self  as  a  specimen  of  these  men  ;  ay,  and  conceit 
goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  former  self  may  be  regarded  as 
no  unfavorable  specimen  either.  'Tis  true  I  was  not  one 
of  the  most  acute  though  one  of  the  most  prudent  of  free- 
thinkers. I  will  not  arrogate  to  myself  the  powers  of  a 
Piiine  or  a  Hobbes,  yet,  setting  conceit  apart,  I  think  I  may 
say  that  my  natural  acuteness  and  acquired  knowledge  at 
the  time  I  deemed  the  historical  part  of  the  Bible  a  collec- 
tion of  fables,  and  its  doctrinal  a  mass  of  absurdities,  were 
far  superior  to  the  acuteness  or  knowledge  of  the  generality 
of  such  men  as  harbor  similar  opinions.  I  mean  such  of 
them  as  think  for  themselves  ;  and  it  is  proper  to  make  this 
distinction ;  for  I  can  assure  you,  however  much  the  men 
who  arrogate  a  faculty  of  detecting  impostures  the  rest  of 
the  world  are  deceived  by,  may  boast  of  the  superior  power 
of  mind  lavished  on  their  sept,  that  there  are  blockheads 
who  are  sceptics  as  well  as  weak  men  who  are  Christians, 


234  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

* 

nay,  more,  that  there  are  men  who  profess  themselves  free- 
thinkers who  were  not  born  to  be  thinkers  at  jail. 

u  The  few  intelligent  sceptics  I  have  been  acquainted 
mth,  I  have  invariably  found  as  ignorant  of  religion  as  I 
myself  was  four  years  ago,  and  from  my  present  knowledge 
of  it  I  conclude  (and  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  my  con- 
clusion false)  that  all  its  enemies,  even  -the  most  acute,  are 
thus  ignorant.  I  have  perused  the  Essays  of  Hume,  one  of 
the  best  reasoners,  perhaps,  the  world  ever  produced,  and 
on  rising  from  that  perusal  this  estimate  appeared  to  me 
juster  than  ever.  Holding  this  opinion,  I  can  pity  these 
men,  but  I  feel  little  disposed  to  fear  their  arguments,  hav- 
ing experience  of  their  futility  ;  nor  yet  do  I  feel  uneasy  at 
the  thought  of  being  the  object  of  the  contempt  of  such ; 
for  my  memory  must  altogether  fail  me  before  I  forget  that 
with  a  contempt  similar  to  theirs  I  once  regarded  men  well 
skilled  in  that  wisdom  the  beginning  of  which  is  the  fear  of 
God. 

"  With  the  second  class,  the  non-thinkers,  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  deal.  They  are  so  numerous  as  to  compose  nearly 
two-thirds  of  the  inhabitants  of  our  large  towns,  and  even 
in  our  villages  and  in  the  country,  whose  inhabitants,  forty 
years  ago,  were  a  superstitious,  it  may  be,  but  certainly  a 
moral  and  decent  people,  they  are  springing  up  like  mush- 
rooms. Consummately  ignorant  of  religion,  and  deficient 
in  all  general  knowledge,  they  ridicule  and  defame  all  those 
who,  professing  a  belief  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Bible,  make 
its  morality  the  rule  of  their  lives.  They  are  searchers 
after  truth  on  the  plan  laid  down  by  my  Lord  Shaftesbury. 
Men  of  the  firmest  minds  find  it  a  hard  task  to  keep  them- 
selves cool  and  undisturbed  when  made  the  butts  of  ridi- 
cule. The  ridicule  of  the  fool,  too,  is  peculiarly  bitter.  I 
have  had  occasion  to  feel  it  at  times,  having  oftener  than 
once  come  in  contact  with  persons  of  the  stamp  described  ; 


MOCKERS.  235 

and  I  have  felt  hurt  at  finding  myself  made  their  butt ;  but 
as  there  is  no  character  I  regard  with  so  much  contempt  as 
a  coward,  I  have  been  solaced  at  finding,  from  repeated 
experience,  that  none  except  arrant  cowards  set  upon  me  in 
this  manner.  These  pusillanimous  mockers  never  venture 
singly  to  attack  a  man.  They  fight  in  companies,  have  no 
chance  if  the  person  they  single  out  be  strong  in  judgment 
or  in  humor,  unless  they  can  drown  his  arguments  or  wit  in 
their  laughter.  For  any  two  of  the  fraternity,  unless  they 
be  more  ignorant  and  stupid  than  common,  I  find  myself  an 
overmatch.  Argument  or  the  sallies  of  wit  confound  them. 
They  can  do  nothing  except  laugh,  and  not  even  that  when 
alone. 

"  But  as  I  have  detailed  the  opinions  which  I  formerly 
held  of  religion  at  some  length,  it  may  not  be  improper  to 
state,  as  a  per  contra,  a  few  of  those  I  at  present  hold  re- 
specting it.  I  have  now  so  far  changed  my  opinion  of 
religion  as  to  think,  with  a  celebrated  poet,  that  Christian 
is  the  highest  style  of  man,  and  that,  by  the  New  Testa- 
ment, men  of  the  greatest  powers  of  mind  and  the  deepest 
learning  may  be  taught  wisdom.  Nor  can  I  deem,  as  I  did 
once,  the  scheme  of  morals  which  this  book  contains  mean 
and  contemptible.  I  am  convinced  that,  were  that  scheme 
universally  acted  upon,  earth  would  become  a  heaven  ;  and 
further,  that  no  one  can  act  upon  it  unless  possessed  of  the 
highest  and  noblest  fortitude,  —  a  fortitude,  indeed,  too 
noble  to  -have  any  place  in  the  natural  human  heart,  but 
which  God  has  promised  to  infuse  into  the  hearts  of  all 
such  as  believe  Jesus  to  be  the  Christ.  As  for  taste,  I  can- 
not help  wondering  how  I  could  at  any  time  be  so  very 
absurd  as  to  think  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  opposed  to 
this  principle,  especially  when  I  understood  and  relished 
the  larger  poems  of  Cowper  and  Milton.  Through  the 
Kevelation  by  which  I  am  taught  of  all  that  Christ  has  done 


236  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

and  suffered  for  sinners,  the 'God  whom  I  would  formerly 
regard  with  a  cold  feeling  of  admiration  I  can  now  love  as 
my  God  and  Father.  I  feel  him  brought  near  unto  me,  and 
that,  too,  in  a  way  against  which  my  pride  of  heart  had 
formerly  revolted,  and  which  my  reason  deemed  as  unworthy 
of  divine  wisdom  to  devise  as  of  human  to  trust  to. 

"  This  is  not  merely  an  avowal  of  a  change  of  opinion. 
There  is  implied  in  it  a  change  of  heart.  Though  still  sin- 
ful and  foolish  in  a  degree  I  would  be  ashamed  to  confess 
even  to  my  friends,  I  trust  I  am  now  less  selfish  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  more  affectionate  heart  than  I  was  before  I  be- 
lieved. My  friends  are  dearer  to  me  than  they  were  for- 
merly, and  yet  I  do  not  now,  as  I  did  once,  make  their 
approbation  the  rule  of  my  actions.  I  am,  perhaps,  still 
too  fond  of  praise  from  such  of  my  fellow-men  as  I  respect 
and  love,  but  I  find  that  my  desire  of  avoiding  that  which 
is  bad  and  dishonorable  follows  me  into  solitude,  and  that 
my  belief  in  God's  omnipresence  (may  I  not  hope  the  as- 
sistance of  his  Spirit  also?)  gives  me  strength  to  accom- 
plish this  desire.  But  you  will  not  be  satisfied  if  I  run  on 
in  this  strain  to  the  end  of  my  letter.  Let  me  close  this 
part  of  it,  then,  in  the  words  of  one  of  the  many  texts 
which  point  out  the  principle  upon  which  the  change  I  have 
been  describing  hinged :  '  Whosoever  believeth  that  Jesus 
is  the  Christ,  is  born  of  God.'  Mark  what  follows  :  '  Who- 
soever is  born  of  God  overcome th  the  world.'  .... 
.  Rousseau  was  certainly  in  the  right  when  he 
said  that  the  art  of  writing  well  was  of  all  others  the  most 
difficult  to  acquire.  I  have  been  wishing,  ay,  and  striving, 
too,  as  hard  as  my  indolent,  volatile  nature  suffered,  for 
these  three  years  past  to  acquire  this  art ;  and  all  I  have 
ye.t  attained  is  an  ability  of  detecting  my  mistakes  and  of 
seeing  how  incorrect  my  modes  of  expression  are.  .  . 

"  There  is  a  general  stagnation  in  this  part  of  the  country 


PROJECTS.  237 

in  all  kinds  of  trade.  The  season  favorable  to  my  depart- 
ment is  fast  advancing,  but  except  two  tombstones  (and  one 
of  these  is  not  yet  finished)  I  have  done  nothing  this  year. 
I  have  some  thoughts  of  putting  into  execution  a  plan  which 
has  been  revolving  in  my  mind  these  several  months  back. 
I  engrave  inscriptions  on  stone  (conceit  apart)  in  a  neater 
and  more  correct  manner  than  any  other  mason  in  this  part 
of  the  country.  The  masons  of  Inverness,  as  I  have  been 
informed,  are  v^ery  deficient  in  this  art.  My  plan  is  to  go 
to  that  town,  take  lodgings  in  some  cheap  part  of  it,  and 
make  myself  known  by  advertisement  as  a  stone  engraver. 
What  think  you  of  this  ?  The  want  of  friends  and  of  a  due 
confidence  in  one's  self  are,  it  is  true,  disqualifying  circum- 
stances, but  time  and  chance  happeneth  to  all." 

Of  the  pursuits,  projects,  and  aspirings  of  this  period  we 
have  further  record  in  a  document  drawn  up  by  Miller  in 
the  spring  of  1828,  headed  "  Things  which  I  intend  doing, 
but  many  of  which,  experience  says,  shall  never  be  done." 
It  is  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted :  — 


"  PART    FIRST.       GEOMETRY,    ARCHITECTURE,  SCULPTURE,  DRAW- 
ING, ETC. 

"  1.  To  fill  a  book  containing  from  thirty  to  forty  pages 
with  such  problems  of  practical  Geometry  as  are  of  use  to 
the  architect  and  builder. 

"  2.  To  execute  in  the  best  style  a  complete  set  of  archi- 
tectural drawings,  beginning  with  Egyptian,  and  ending 
with  Gothic  architecture. 

"  3.  To  study  the  proportions  of  the  human  figure  as 
exemplified  in  the  works  of  the  Grecian  school  of  sculp- 
ture. 

u  4.  To  practise  cutting  in  stone,  foliage,  shells,  heral- 
dic figures,  the  Ionic,  Corinthian,  and  composite  capitals,  etc. 


238  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

"  5.  To  fill  about  a  dozen  pages  with  the  varieties  of 
the  Roman,  Italian,  old  English,  and  Saxon  alphabets  ;  the 
letters  of  each  to  be  formed  in  my  best  and  neatest  manner, 
and  the  whole  to  be  shown  to  strangers  as  a  specimen  of 
my  skill  in  inscription  engraving. 

"6.  To  make  a  set  of  drawings  of  such  of  the  old  build- 
ings of  Ross-shire  as  I  have  taken  sketches  of  in  the  course 
of  my  casual  peregrinations  through  that  country,  such  as 
the  Tower  of  Fairburn,  Castle  Leod,  Craighouse,  Lochslin, 
Balconie,  Bain  ago  wn,  etc. 

"  7.  To  make  a  set  of  drawings  of  the  scenery  of  the 
parish  of  Cromarty,  including  two  views  of  the  town,  one 
from  the  west,  the  other  from  the  east ;  two  views  of  Cro- 
marty House,  one  from  the  old  chapel,  the  other  from  the 
green  in  front.  One  from  the  hill  above  the  Laigh  Craig 
of  the  Bay  of  Cromarty,  another  of  the  same  from  the 
Sutor  Road.  One  view  of  the  Laigh  Craig  from  the  wood 
adjoining.  One  of  the  Sinkan  Hillock  from  the  Sach 
Craig.  One  of  the  Apple-Garden  from  the  Red  Nose. 
One  of  the  Murray  Frith  from  the  Gallow  Hill.  One  of 
the  Gallow  Hill  from  the  "Murray  Frith.  One  of  Mac- 
Arthur's  Bed.  One  from  Hespy  Home,  and  three  to  be 
taken  from  different  points  in  the  Burn  of  Craighouse. 

"  8.  To  try  how  I  will  succeed  in  portrait  and  land- 
scape in  oil  colors. 

"9.  To  practise  the  old  hand  until. the  best  judges 
would  be  unable  to  distinguish  between  a  piece  of  my  writ- 
ing in  the  ancient  style  and  a  manuscript  two  hundred 
years  old. 

"10.  To  make  a  set  of  drawings  of  all  the  fine  wild 
flowers  and  pretty  colored  butterflies  to  be  found  in  this 
part  of  the  country. 

"  11.   To  make  a  piece  of  mosaic  work  of  fine  stones 


PROJECTS.  239 

found  on  the  shores  of  Cromarty,  or  in  the  caves  of  the 
Gallow  Hill. 

"  PART    SECOND.       LITERATURE  I    PROSE    COMPOSITION. 

"  1.  I  intend  writing  a  work,  humorous  and  descriptive, 
to  be  entitled,  'Four  Years  in  the  Life  of  a  Journeyman 
Mason.' 

"  2.  I  intend  writing  a  history  of  my  varying  thoughts 
of  men  and  manners,  right  and  wrong,  philosophy  and 
religion,  from  my  twelfth  to  my  twenty-sixth  year. 

"  3.  I  intend  writing  a  description  of  the  town  and 
parish  of  Cromarty,  its  traditional  history  and  a  character 
of  its  inhabitants. 

"  4.   I  intend  writing  a  memoir  of  my  father's  life. 

"  5.  I  intend  writing  the  life  of  my  uncle,  Alexander 
Wright. 

"  6.  I  intend  making  a  collection  of  all  the  letters  I 
have  written  my  friends,  and  all  I  have  received  from  them. 

"  7.   I  intend  writing  an  essay  on  the  Book  of  Psalms. 

"  8.   I  intend  writing  a  memoir  of  my  friend,  Will  Ross. 

"  9.  I  intend  writing  a  memoir  of  my  townsman,  David 
Henderson. 

"  10.  I  intend  writing  an  essay  on  the  doctrine  of  pre- 
destination as  connected  with  that  of  faith,  for  the  perusal 
of  my  friend,  Will  Ross. 

"11.  I  intend  writing  letters  to  George  Corbett  on 
sermon  writing  and  sermon  writers,  and  also  a  sermon  for 
him  on  a  given  text. 

"12.  I  intend  completing  my  letter  to  Clericus,  and 
writing  out  a  fair  copy  of  it  for  my  friend,  J.  Swanson.  I 
intend  writing  a  collection  of  miscellaneous  essays  in  the 
manner  of  the  '  Spectator,'  to  be  entitled  '  The  Egotist.' 

"13.  I  intend  writing  two  letters  descriptive  of  the 
Herring  Fishery,  and  containing  its  traditional  history. 


240  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 


"  PART   THIRD.       LITERATURE  I    POETRY. 

u  1.  I  intend  collecting  all  my  Juvenile  Poems  into  one 
volume,  correcting  and  altering  them  as  I  see  proper. 

"  2.  I  intend  writing  '  The  Widow  of  Dunskaith/  a 
legendary  poem. 

"  3.  I  intend  writing  '  The  Lady  of  Balconie,'  a 
legendaiy  poem. 

"4.    I  intend  writing  '  The  Chapel/  a  descriptive  poem. 

"  5.   I  intend  writing  '  The  Leper,'  a  sacred  poem. 

"  6.  I  intend  new  modelling  and  completing  '  An  Hour 
at  Eve,'  a  moral  poem. 

"  7.   I  intend  writing  an  Ode  to  the  Ness. 

"  8.  I  intend  writing  an  Address  to  the  Northern  In- 
stitution." 

There  are  several  things  worth  noting  here.  Observe, 
in  the  first  place,  the  practical  nature  of  the  scheme.  Our 
stone-mason  has  high  aspirings,  but  he  is  no  day-dreamer. 
Sketching,  in  the  heyday  of  early  manhood,  the  tasks  of 
the  ensuing  years,  he  begins  with  a  series  of  undertakings 
bearing  directly  upon  the  calling  by  which  he  is  to  live. 
The  basis  of  all  his  activity  is  the  attainment  of  a  com- 
fortable livelihood,  and  a  creditable  position  as  a  hewer  of 
stone.  In  the  next  place,  his  literary  activity  centres  in 
himself  and  his  local  connections  and  interests.  The  two 
largest  works  which  he  intends  to  produce  in  prose  are  to  be 
about  himself,  and  it  seems  probable  that  in  the  series  of 
essays  to  be  entitled  u  The  Egotist,"  he  would  be  the 
central  figure.  It  is  remarkable,  in  the  third  place,  that  we 
find,  in  this  summary  of  Hugh  Miller's  intentions  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six,  no  trace  of  scientific  enthusiasm,  no 
vestige  of  scientific  ambition.  Literature,  and  those  as- 
pects of  nature  which  delight  the  poet  and  the  painter, 


PROJECTS.  241 

possess  Ms  heart.  He  is  to  execute  many  drawings,  but 
not  one  geological  diagram.  Lastly,  we  may  observe  that, 
though  the  contrite  anticipation  of  partial  failure  in 
achievement  was  of  necessity  verified,  yet  the  corre- 
spondence between  this  chart  of  his  voyage  and  the  course 
he  actually  pursued  was  more  than  usually  close.  Proof 
exists  that  Miller  accomplished  a  large  proportion  of  what 
he  at  this  period  intended  to  attempt.  His  autobiograph- 
ical plans  ultimately  took  shape  in  the  u  Schools  .  and 
Schoolmasters."  His  letters  on  the  Herring  Fishery  will 
claim  our  attention  in  the  immediate  sequel.  The  drawing 
of  the  old  tower  of  Fairburn,  which  we  have  been  able  to 
lay  before  the  reader,  was  probably  one  of  several  which 
he  executed  about  this  time,  but  which  having,  as  I  sur- 
mise, been  given  to  friends,  are  lost.  This  drawing  not 
only  proves  him  to  have  possessed  considerable  skill  as  a 
self-taught  draughtsman,  but  exhibits,  in  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Ruskin,  some  power  of  composition.  The  problems  in 
practical  geometry  were  worked  out  and  entered  in  a  man- 
uscript book,  as  proposed.  His  description  of  the  town 
and  parish  of  Cromarty  was  published  in  the  Statistical 
Account  of  Scotland,  and  is  a  most  accurate,  lucid,  and 
comprehensive  performance.  From  all  this  we  may  con- 
clude that  Hugh  Miller,  instead  of  being,  as  he  calls  him- 
self, volatile  and  indolent,  has  become  a  man  of  singularly 
calm  and  resolute  mind.  He  looks  habitually  before  and 
after  ;  calculates  the  force  at  his  command  ;  and  disposes  it 
with  strategic  method  for  the  conduct  of  life's  campaign. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

SEEKS    WORK    IN   INVERNESS    UNSUCCESSFULLY  —  RESOLVES    TO 

PRINT     HIS     POEMS MAKES    THE     ACQUAINTANCE    OF     MR. 

CARRUTHERS IS    ASKED     TO    ENLIST CORRECTS     PROOF- 
SHEETS    OF  HIS    POETRY,  AND    DECIDES    THAT    IT    IS    POOR 

RETAINS     INFLEXIBLY   HIS     FIRST    OPINION    OF   ITS     MERITS, 

AND    RESOLVES    TO    CULTIVATE    PROSE DEATHS    OF  UNCLE 

JAMES   AND    OF  WILLIAM   ROSS — DEDICATION   OF  HIS   POEMS 
TO   SWANSON. 

/HE  plan  of  seeking  work  in  Inverness,  which  he 
carried  into  effect  in  the  course  of  the  summer, 
had  important  consequences,  but  they  proved  to 
be  by  no  means  of  the  kind  he  anticipated. 
Thinking,  with  somewhat  less,  it  must  be  admitted,  than 
his  usual  shrewdness,  that,  by  demonstrating  his  power  to 
write  grammatically  in  the  poetical  corner  of  a  newspaper, 
he  might  obtain  employment  as  an  engraver  of  epitaphs,  he 
wrote  an  Ode  to  the  River  Ness,  and  offered  it  for  insertion 
in  the  "  Inverness  Courier."  No  one  trusts  a  versifying 
mechanic  in  his  own  art ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  capital 
of  the  Highlands,  dowered  with  quite  sufficient  conceit, 
would  have  been  more  likely  to  resent  the  implication  that 
they  could  not  compose  inscriptions  for  themselves,  than  to 
employ  a  stone-cutter  who  proposed,  however  melodiously, 
to  compose  inscriptions  for  them.  But  we  need  not  specu- 
late on  the  effect  which  the  appearance  of  the  Ode  to  the 
Ness  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Courier  "  might  have  produced 

242 


FRIENDSHIP    OF   MR.   CARRUTHERS.  243 

in  the  way  of  orders  for  gravestones.  The  editor  did  not 
insert  the  verses ;  they  are,  in  truth,  uncommonly  poor. 
Miller,  however,  piqued  by  their  non-appearance,  and  con- 
fident in  his  poetical  powers,  resolved  to  print  on  his  own 
account,  and  with  this  view  made  application  afresh  at  the 
office  of  the  newspaper. 

He  thus  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Robert  Carru- 
thers,  then,  as  now,  editor  of  the  "  Inverness  Courier,"  and 
the  acquaintance  ripened  rapidly  into  a  friendship  which 
continued  during  the  life  of  Hugh  Miller.  With  that  criti- 
cal acumen  which  all  the  world  has  learned  to  acknowledge 
in  the  biographer  of  Pope,  Mr.  Carruthers  discerned  the 
originality  and  worth  of  Miller,  and  though  he  came  in  the 
guise  of  a  stone-mason,  shy,  taciturn,  ungainly,  with  a  quire 
of  rugged  verses  in  his  pocket,  admitted  him  at  once  to  the 
enjoyment  of  that  equality  and  that  fraternity  which  have 
from  of  old  prevailed  in  the  republic  of  letters.  Miller  had 
indeed  made  a  notable  acquisition,  and  he  did  not  fail  to 
appreciate  it.  The  perfect  judgment,  the  perfect  temper, 
the  literary  sympathy,  not  less  intelligent  than  warm,  tihe 
indestructible  cordiality,  unchilled  by  forty  years'  editorial 
experience,  which  have  endeared  Mr.  Carruthers  to  thou- 
sands from  London  to  Inverness,  won  his  confidence  and 
his  heart.  To  his  dying  day  there  was  no  newspaper  which 
he  read  with  half  the  interest  with  which  he  hung  over  the 
"  Inverness  Courier." 

An  address  to  the  Northern  Institution,  —  an  antiquarian 
and  scientific  society  which  had  its  head-quarters  in  Inver- 
ness, —  though  couched  in  the  pompous  rhetoric  proper  to 
such  addresses,  and  written  out  in  that  old  English  hand 
which  was  one  of  Miller's  valued  accomplishments,  was  as 
unsuccessful,  in  the  light  of  a  business  speculation,  as  the 
Ode  to  the  Ness.  The  task  of  soliciting  employment,  di- 
rectly or  indirectly,  thus  discovered  to  be  intolerably  irk- 


244  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

some  and  utterly  unprofitable,  was  relinquished.  He  would 
ask  no  more  favors  of  any  one,  and  u  strode  along  the 
streets,  half  an  inch  taller  on  the  strength  of  the  resolu- 
tion." Whether  it  was  the  defiant  glance  expressive  of  this 
resolution,  or  a  lingering  forlornness  in  his  appearance 
which  still  betrayed  the  mechanic  out  of  work,  that  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  recruiting  sergeant,  we  are  left  to  guess. 
Certain  it  is  that  he  was  offered  the  kind's  shilling;  on  the 

O  '         O 

streets  of  Inverness,  and  civilly  declined  the  same. 

Meanwhile,  his  poems  began  to  be  put  into  his  hands  in 
a  form  which,  though  he  probably  had  them  by  heart,  made 
them  nevertheless  new  to  him,  to  wit,  in  print.  The  effect 
was  memorable.  His  critical  faculty  realized  with  startling 
and  painful,  but  quite  convincing,  vividness,  that  they  fell 
far  below  the  mark  of  good  English  poetry.  Hugh  Miller 
was  hardly  one  of  those  who  "  can  hear  their  detractions 
and  put  them  to  mending,"  for  his  pugnacity  always  awoke 
when  he  was  attacked  ;  but  he  was  one  of  a  class,  perhaps 
still  smaller,  who  can  estimate  their  own  performances  with 
austere  justice,  and  abide  by  that  estimate  in  face  of  con- 
temptuous disparagement,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  most 
ingenious  and  plausible  encomiums  on  the  other.  The 
"  Poems  written  in  the  Leisure  Hours  of  a  Journeyman 
Mason  "  met  with  a  success  which,  had  Miller  been  a  rhym- 
ing artisan  of  the  ordinary  calibre,  would  have  turned  his 
head.  Issued  from  a  newspaper  office  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, they  were  recognized  as  imbued  with  true  excellence 
in  periodicals  of  the  first  order,  and  by  critics  of  culture 
and  authority.  The  "  Lines  to  a  Sun-dial  placed  in  a 
Church-yard"  were  quoted  in  magazine  and  newspaper 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
and  the  author  was  assured  that  they  displayed  "  a  refine- 
ment of  thought,  an  elegance  and  propriety  of  language, 
that  would  do  honor  to  the  most  accomplished  poet  of  the 


HIS    POEMS   IN    PRINT.  245 

day."  Had  Miller  not  had  the  making  of  a  poet  in  him,  the 
like  of  this  would  have  led  him  at  once  to  exalt  his  horn  as 
a  prodigy  of  genius,  too  fine  to  work  at  his  craft,  who  had 
only  to  put  his  name  to  a  copy  of  verses  to  make  them  im- 
mortal, and  whom  the  human  sjoecies  were  bound  to  supply 
with  the  necessaries  of  life  gratis.  The  plaudits  pro- 
foundly gratified  Miller,  but  did  not  move  him  a  bair's- 
breadth  from  the  rhadamantbine  sternness  of  his  judgment 
on  himself,  or  shake  in  his  bosom  "  that  serene  and  uncon- 
querable pride  which  no  applause,  no  reprobation,  could 
blind  to  its  shortcoming  or  beguile  of  its  reward." 

The  question  may  be  gravely  put,  whether  he  did  not  err 
in  determining,  as  he  did,  to  abandon  poetical  composition 
and  devote  himself,  for  a  time  at  least,  to  prose.  The  pieces 
which  he  printed  were  no  doubt  defective,  and  his  best  verse 
is  inferior,  in  poetical  qualities,  not  only  to  his  best,  but  to 
his  second  or  third-rate  prose.  The  essential  point  to  deter- 
mine, however,  is  whether  there  are  grounds  for  believing 
that,  if  he  had  brought  the  whole  energies  of  his  soul  to  the 
task  of  perfecting  his  verse,  —  if  he  had  invincibly  striven  to 
beat  out  those  notes  of  music,  delicate  and  strong,  which 
lay  deep  in  his  nature  and  were  never  clearly  articulated,  — 
he  would  or  would  not  have  realized  a  higher  beauty,  and 
expressed  a  deeper  truth,  than  he  actually  attained.  It  was 
within  the  capacity  of  Miller  to  produce  reflective  and 
descriptive  poetry  equal  to  any  in  the  English  language. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  fell  short  both  in  lyrical  passion  and 
dramatic  sympathy,  and  his  imagination,  though  powerful, 
was  cold.  His  ear,  too,  may  have  been  naturally  better 
fitted  to  the  modulation  of  prose  than  of  verse.  It  is  boot- 
less to  speculate  on  the  subject.  The  army  of  the  Muses  is 
like  that  of  Gideon.  All  who  are  fearful  or  afraid,  all  who 
do  not  serve  for  life  or  for  death,  not  only  may  but  must 
quit  it ;  and  Miller  was  critic  enough  to  know  the  "  intol- 


246  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

erable  severity "  of  Apollo.  Some  of  our  most  eminent 
writers,  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Mr.  Ruskin,  for  instance,  impa- 
tient of  the  deluges  of  mediocre  poetry  which  flood  our 
literary  thoroughfares,  and  angry  that  attention  should  be 
diverted  by  anything  short  of  transcendent  excellence  from 
the  wealth  of  choicest  song  with  which  the  literature  of 
England  is  already  stored,  would  maintain  that,  in  deliber- 
ately abandoning  verse,  amid  the  acclamations  which 
greeted  his  earliest  efforts,  Hugh  Miller  presented  an  ex- 
ample which  specially  deserves  to  be  followed,  and  gave  one 
of  the  noblest  proofs  afforded  by  his  career  of  sterling  abil- 
ity and  massive  sense.  Mrs.  Miller  informs  me  that  his 
relinquishment  of  the  lyre  was  but  provisional ;  and  that  it 
was  his  intention  to  resume  verse  in  a  poem  to  be  entitled 
"  The  Leper."  It  will  be  recollected  that  among  the 
projects  which  we  saw  him  form  was  one  for  the  composi- 
tion of  a  poem  thus  named. 

From  the  ideal  woe  of  perceiving  for  the  first  time  -that 
he  stood  at  an  immeasurable  distance  below  the  great  mas- 
ters of  English  poetry,  he  was  recalled  to  the  hard  reality 
of  grief  by  the  intelligence  that  his  Uncle  James  had  died  ; 
and,  on  proceeding  to  Cromarty,  in  consequence  of  this  in- 
telligence, he  learned  that  William  Ross  also  was  no  more. 
Uncle  James,  as  we  well  know,  had  been  as  a  father  to 
him  ;  or  rather  as  one  among  ten  thousand  fathers  ;  for,  if 
the  affection  with  which  he  regarded  his  nephew  was  as  that 
of  a  tender  parent,  the  counsel,  the  example,  the  sympa- 
thetic forbearance,  the  just  appreciation,  which  Miller  expe- 
rienced at  his  hands,  were  such  as  the  fewest  parents  can 
bestow.  From  Uncle  James,  as  by  a  fine  moral  contagion, 
Hugh  derived  that  proud  integrity,  that  sensitive  honor,  in 
money  matters,  which  was  with  him,  as  with  Burns,  a  pas- 
sion. 

The  death  of  Ross,  though  at  the  moment  his  preoccupa- 


DEDICATION    TO    SWANSON.  247 

tion  with  grief  for  the  loss  of  his  uncle  prevented  him  from 
feeling  the  full  force  of  this  second  blow,  must  also  have 
touched  him  keenly.  Among  his  early  friends  Swanson  had 
his  deepest  respect,  but  the  tenderest  of  his  friendships  was 
with  Ross.  Of  him  alone  among  his  boyish  companions 
did  Miller  speak  as  possessed  of  genius,  and  we  have  seen 
enough  to  prove  that  his  estimate  was  not  extravagant. 
Ross  could  sympathize  with  much  which  elicited  no  re- 
sponse from  the  Puritan  rigor  of  Swanson,  and  with  his 
delicate  feeling  for  beauty  were  combined  a  feminine  gen- 
tleness and  depth  of  affection  which  greatly  endeared  him 
to  Miller.  The  circumstances  of  his  death  have  a  pathos 
deeper  than  the  pathos  of  romance.  He  was  living  in 
Glasgow,  occupying  the  same  rooms  with  a  brother  me- 
chanic, when  this  last  was  seized  with  consumption.  For 
several  months  he  was  unfit  for  work.  Ross,  who  had 
been  consumptive  in  his  most  vigorous  years,  and  in  whom 
the  vital  flame  was  now  waning  fast,  continued  to  toil  for 
both ;  and  as  his  fine  talent,  incomparably  superior  to  that 
of  the  ordinary  house-painter,  enabled  him  to  execute  work 
which  required  delicate  handling  rather  than  exertion  of 
physical  energy,  he  found  remunerative  employment  as 
long  as  his  fingers  could  hold  a  brush.  Having  thus 
shielded  against  want  the  comrade  who  was  dying  only  a 
little  faster  than  himself,  Ross  beheld  him  sink  into  the 
grave,  and,  the  last  task  which  bound  him  to  earth  accom- 
plished, speedily  followed.  "  My  hope  of  salvation  is  in 
the  blood  of  Jesus.  Farewell,  my  sincerest  friend."  These 
were  the  closing  words  of  William  Ross's  last  letter  to 
Miller. 

The  Journeyman's  Poems  were  dedicated  to  John  Swan- 
son,  the  name  disguised  in  asterisks.  In  a  dedicatory  epis- 
tle to  his  friend,  written  in  prose,  Miller  declares  him  to 
be  "  the  best  scholar  and  truest  philosopher  he  ever  knew," 


248  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

and  avows  his  gratitude  to  him  for  "  having  convinced  one 
who  possibly  might  have  done  some  mischief  as  an  infidel, 
that  the  Religion  of  the  Bible  is  not  a  cunningly  devised 
fable."  Of  his  own  book  he  ventures  to  state  the  opinion, 
"  that  a  spirit  of  poetry  may  be  found  in  it,  wrestling  with 
tho'se  improprieties  of  language  consequent  on  imperfect 
education,  just  as  the  half-formed  animals  of  the  Nile,  that 
are  warmed  into  life  by  the  beams  of  the  sun,  struggle  to 
free  themselves  from  the  mud  and  slime  in  which  they  are 
enveloped."  He  virtually  takes  upon  himself  the  blame, 
however,  of  whatever  defect  of  education  the  volume  may 
display,  confessing  that,  in  the  present  age,  "  ignorance 
implies  rather  want  of  mind  than  want  of  opportunity  for 
cultivating  the  mental  faculties."  True  words ;  and  spe- 
cially brave  and  modest  from  the  lips  of  a  poetical 
mechanic. 


CHAPTER  X. 

RESUMES    WORK    AS     A     STONE-CUTTER     AT     CROMARTY INTI- 
MACY  WITH    MR.     STEWART THE    LITERARY    LION    OF    THE 

PLACE WRITES     FOR    THE    "INVERNESS    COURIER  " LET- 
TERS   ON    THE    HERRING    FISHERY EXTRAORDINARY    SHOAL 

OF    PIERRINGS A    NIGHT     ON    GUILLIAM EMIGRATION     OF 

HIGHLANDERS   TO    CANADA SCIENCE   AT   LAST. 

AVING  committed  the  body  of  Uncle  James  to  the 
grave,  and  piously  recorded  on  his  tombstone 
that  he  had  "  lived  without  reproach  and  died 
without  fear,"  Miller  did  not  return  to  Inverness, 
but  resumed  his  employment  in  the  church-yards  of  Cro- 
marty  and  its  neighborhood.  The  publication  of  his  poems, 
whose  authorship  was  well  known  in  the  locality,  was  suffi- 
cient to  make  him  a  person  of  some  importance  in  his  na- 
tive town.  He  associated  himself  with  the  better  portion 
of  its  inhabitants,  those  who  combined  a  moderate  liberal- 
ism of  political  opinion  with  literary  or  scientific  tastes  and 
strong  religious  principles.  His  acquaintance  with  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Stewart,  which  had  formerly  been  slight,  now 
deepened  into  intimacy,  and  no  sooner  had  he  an  opportu- 
nity of  knowing  Mr.  Stewart  well,  than  he  conceived  for 
him  the  highest  esteem,  and  dismissed  forever  from  his 
mind,  as  the  mere  fruits  of  misunderstanding,  what  he  had 
formerly  fancied  to  the  disadvantage  of  his  minister.  Mil- 
ler's profession  of  religion,  also,  was  more  decided  than  for- 
merly, and  he  began  to  teach  in  the  Sunday  school. 

249 


250  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

Hewing  under  sunny  skies  on  the  chapel  brae,  he  often 
finds  Mr.  Stewart  or  some  intelligent  friend  stealing  to  his 
side  to  give  and  take  an  hour's  conversation,  and  some- 
times his  visitors  are  of  the  fair  sex.  The  journeyman 
mason  has  become  the  literary  lion  of  Cromarty. 

But  "nature's  noblest  gift"  to  Miller,  his  "  gray  goose- 
quill,"  has  not  been  laid  aside.  Turning  his  attention  to 
prose,  and  availing  himself  of  the  columns  of  the  "  Inverness 
Courier,"  which  his  friend  Carruthers  gladly  throws  open 
to  him,  he  writes,  in  the  summer  of  1829,  five  letters  on  the 
Herring  Fishery,  which,  "  in  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
ruthers, "  of  the  interest  they  excited  in  the  Northern 
Counties,  and  in  justice  to  their  modest  and  talented  author," 
were  issued  in  pamphlet  form  in  September  of  the  same 
year.  They  are  written  with  much  vivacity,  and  abound 
with  pertinent  remarks  and  fine  descriptive  passages.  In 
addition  to  what  he  had  personally  witnessed  in  connection 
with  .the  Herring  Fishery,  Miller  puts  on  record  not  a  little 
which  he  learned  from  his  more  aged  townsmen.  To  the 
latter  is  due  the  following  graphic  picture  of  Cromarty  Bay, 
when  in  possession  of  an  extraordinary  shoal  of  fish  :  — 

"  I  have  heard  one  season  spoken  of  as  very  remarkable 
from  the  quantity  of  fish  on  the  coast.  One  clay  in  partic- 
ular, in  the  beginning  of  autumn,  the  Bay  of  Cromarty  pre- 
sented a  scene  not  easy  to  be  forgotten.  The  appearance 
was  as  if  its  countless  waves  were  embodied  into  fish  and 
birds.  No  fewer  than  seven  whales,  some  of  them  appar- 
ently sixty  feet  in  length,  were  seen  within  the  short  space  of 
half  a  mile.  When  they  spouted,  the  jet  seemed,  in  the  rays 
of  a  noon-day  sun,  as  if  speckled  with  silver,  an  appearance 
given  by  shoals  of  garves  (a  smooth-coated,  pretty  little 
fish)  which  they  drew  in  with  the  water,  and  thus  ejected. 
Some  of  the  birds  that  flocked  round  them  to  pick  up  the 
small  fry  which  were  stranded  on  their  backs,  were  hurried 


GUILLIAM.  251 

aloft  in  the  jet,  like  chaff  or  feathers  in  an  eddy,  to  the 
height  of  thirty  or  forty  feet.  The  water  round  them  bub- 
bled like  a  caldron.  There  were  in  the  immense  hetero- 
geneous mass  through  which  they  swam,  herrings,  mack- 
erel, sand-eels,  garves,  cod,  porpoises,  and  seals." 

The  exact  observation  and  firm  grasp  of  detail,  which 
contributed  so  much  to  make  Miller  a  master  of  description, 
are  already  traceable  in  the  following  account  of  the  Bank 
of  Guilliam,  a  noted  resort  of  herrings  in  the  Moray  Frith  : 
u  The  Moray  Frith  Herring  Fishery  commences  in  the  middle 
of  July,  and  the  fish  commonly  leave  the  coast  in  the  end 
of  August,  or  first  of  September.  For  the  first  few  weeks 
the  shoals  are  small  and  detached ;  and  the  fishings  only 
average  from  two  to  five  barrels  per  boat.  Herrings  are 
caught  at  this  early  stage  of  the  fishing  on  the  coast  of 
Moray,  nearly  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  Spey ;  but  they 
swim  in  no  determined  track,  —  advancing,  in  some  seasons, 
through  the  middle  of  the  frith,  and  in  others  towards  its 
eastern  or  western  shores.  As  the  season  advances  they 
come  up  higher,  form  into  large  bodies,  and  pursue  a  route 
tolerably  certain.  At  this  second  stage,  the  quantity  of 
barrels  caught  by  each  boat  averages  from  eight  to  fourteen. 
The  point  at  which  the  shoals  unite  is  a  long,  narrow  bank, 
which  lies  in  the  middle  of  the  frith,  nearly  opposite  the 
Bay  of  Crornarty,  and  which  the  fishermen  term  Guilliam, 
from  three  little  conical  hillocks,  on  the  northern  shore,  so 
called.  These  hillocks  are  situated  near  a  deep  ravine, 
about  half  a  mile  south  of  the  little  fishing-town  of  Shand- 
wick  ;  and  when  boatmen  bring  them  to  appear  as  if  rising 
out  of  the  middle  of  the  ravine,  and  see  at  the  same  time 
the  Gaelic  chapel  of  Cromarty  in  the  line  of  the  Inlaw,  — 
another  conical  hillock  near  the  southern  base  of  Ben 
Wy vis,  —  they  are  on  the  fishing  ground.  The  position  of 
the  bank  is  also  ascertained  by  the  depth  of  the  water,  and 


252  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

the  nature  of  the  bottom.  The  soundings  on  the  north 
side  vary  from  twelve  to  eighteen  fathoms,  on  the  south 
from  twenty-five  to  thirty,  while  the  depth  of  the  bank  does 
not  average  more  than  ten  fathoms,  and  the  bottom,  which 
on  the  one  side  is  sand,  and  on  the  other  mud,  is  a  hard 
gravel,  and  in  some  places  a  smooth,  level  rock  covered 
with  sea-weed.  The  breadth  of  the  ridge  does  not  exceed 
half  a  mile,  but  its  length  is  nearly  thrice  as  much.  A 
greater  quantity  of  herrings  have  been  caught  on  this  bank 
than  upon  any  other  of  equal  extent  on  the  coast  of  Scot- 
land. There  have  been  repeated  instances  of  fishings  pros- 
ecuted on  Guilliam,  for  the  space  of  a  whole  week,  at  the 
average  rate  of  eight  hundred  barrels  per  day ;  and  it  has 
become  so  famous  among  Moray  Frith  fishermen,  that  they 
are  regarded  as  meaning  the  same  thing  when  they  express 
their  wish  for  a  prosperous  season,  or  for  a  week's  fishing 
on  Guilliam.  It  is  sufficiently  strange,  that  several  thou- 
sand barrels  of  herring  should  be  caught  in  the  course  of  a 
week,  on  a  bank  whose  extent  of  surface  does  not  exceed 
one-half  of  a  square  mile,  and  still  more  so,  that  near  the 
close  of  such  a  week  the  fish  appear  in  as  great  a  body 
upon  it  as  they  do  at  the  commencement.  When  the  her- 
rings make  a  lodgment  on  Guilliam,  the  fishings  are  inva- 
riably good ;  when,  after  making  a  short  stay  on  it,  they 
proceed  farther  up  the  frith,  the  quantity  caught  is  immense, 
and  salt  and  cask  commonly  fail  the  curers  before  the  fish 
leave  the  coast ;  but  when-  the  shoal  quits  the  frith  before  it 
settles  on  this  bank,  the  fishing  is  so  scanty  as  scarcely 
to  cover  the  fishermen's  expenses  in  fitting  out  their  boats. 
This,  though  not  generally  known,  is  so  well  understood  by 
those  concerned,  that  an  intelligent  fisherman  could  mark  a 
chart  of  the  Moray  Frith  with  cross  lines,  like  the  index  of 
a  thermometer,  and  affix  a  statement  of  what  the  average 
profit  or  loss  of  the  respective  seasons  would  prove,  in  which 


A    NIGHT    ON    GUILLIAM.  253 

the   fish    turned    and   went    off    at    the    different    places 
marked." 

It  was  on  this  Bank  of  Guilliam  that  Hugh  Miller  passed 
a  night  in  a  herring  boat  ten  years  before  the  time  at  which 
he  wrote.  The  letter  in  which  his  experiences  on  the  occa- 
sion are  recorded  is  the  most  carefully  executed  of  the 
series,  and  derives  additional  interest  from  containing,  in 
their  original  form,  the  extracts  from  the  Herring-Fishery 
letters  which  he  included,  many  years  subsequently,  in  the 
"  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  They  thus  enable  us  to  com- 
pare his  descriptive  manner  in  1829  with  that  which  he 
ultimately  preferred.  Miller  seems  never  to  have  been  able 
to  let  a  sample  of  his  composition  leave  his  hand  without 
making  it  as  good  as,  at  the  time  of  its  quotation,  he  was 
capable  of  making  it.  Some  may  be  disposed  to  think  that 
in  the  easy  and  artless  vigor,  the  youthful  animation  and 
freshness,  of  the  earlier  style,  there  is  something  to  com- 
pensate for  the  studied  compactness  and  elaborate  polish 
of  the  later. 

A   NIGHT   ON   GUILLIAM. 

"In  the  latter  end  of  August,  1819,  I  went  out  to  the 
fishing  then  prosecuted  on  Guilliam,  in  a  Cromarty  boat. 
The  evening  was  remarkably  pleasant.  A  low  breeze  from 
the  west  scarcely  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  frith,  which  was 
varied  in  every  direction  by  unequal  stripes  and  patches 
of  a  dead  calmness.  The  Bay  of  Cromarty,  burnished  by 
the  rays  of  the  declining  sun,  until  it  glowed  like  a  sheet  of 
molten  fire,  lay  behind,  winding  in  all  its  beauty  beneath 
purple  hills  and  jutting  headlands ;  while  before  stretched 
the  wide  extent  of  the  Moray  Frith,  speckled  with  fleets  of 
boats  which  had  lately  left  their  several  ports,  and  were 
now  all  sailing  in  one  direction.  The  point  to  which  they 
were  bound  was  the  Bank  of  Guilliam,  which,  seen  from 


254  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

betwixt  the  Sutors,  seemed  to  verge  on  the  faint  blue  line  of 
the  horizon  ;  and  the  fleets  which  had  already  arrived  on  it, 
had,  to  the  naked  eye,  the  appearance  of  a  little  rough- 
edged  cloud  resting  on  the  water.  As  we  advanced,  this 
cloud  of  boats  grew  larger  and  darker  ;  and  soon  after  sun- 
set, when  the  bank  was  scarcely  a  mile  distant,  it  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  thick,  leafless  wood,  covering  a  low, 
brown  island. 

"  The  tide,  before  we  left  the  shore,  had  risen  high  on  the 
beach,  and  was  now  beginning  to  recede.  Aware  of  this, 
we  lowered  sail  several  hundred  yards  to  the  south  of  the 
fishing-ground,  and,  after  determining  the  point  from  whence 
the  course  of  the  current  would  drift  us  direct  over  the 
bank,  we  took  down  the  mast,  cleared  the  hinder  part  of  the 
boat,  and  began  to  cast  out  the  nets.  Before  the  '  Inlaw ' 
appeared  in  the  line  of  the  Gaelic  chapel  (the  landmark  by 
which  the  southernmost  extremity  of  Guilliam  is  ascer- 
tained) the  whole  drift  was  thrown  overboard,  and  made 
fast  to  the  swing.  Night  came  on.  The  sky  assumed  a 
dead  and  leaden  hue.  A  low,  dull  mist  roughened  the  out- 
line of  the  distant  hills,  and  in  some  places  blotted  them  out 
from  the  landscape.  The  faint  breeze,  that  had  hitherto 
scarcely  been  felt,  now  roughened  the  water,  which  was  of 
a  dark  blue  color  approaching  to  black.  The  sounds  which 
predominated  were  in  unison  with  the  scene.  The  almost 
measured  dash  of  the  waves  against  the  sides  of  the  boat 
and  the  faint  rustle  of  the  breeze  were  incessant ;  while  the 
low,  dull  moan  of  the  surf  breaking  on  the  distant  beach, 
and  the  short,  sudden  cry  of  an  aquatic  fowl  of  the  diving 
species,  occasionally  mingled  with  the  sweet,  though  rather 
monotonous,  notes  of  a  Gaelic  song.  c  It's  ane  o'  the  Gair- 
loch  fishermen,'  said  our  skipper ;  '  puir  folk,  they're  aye 
singing  an'  thinking  o'  the  Hielands.' 

"  Our  boat,  as  the  tides  were  not  powerful,  drifted  slowly 


A    NIGHT   ON    GUILLIAM.  255 

over  tbe  bank.  The  buoys  stretched  out  from  the  bows  in 
an  unbroken  line.  There  was  no  sign  of  fish ;  and  the 
boatmen,  after  spreading  the  sail  over  the  beams,  laid 
themselves  down  on  it.  The  scene  was  at  the  time  so  new 
to  me,  and,  though  of  a  somewhat  melancholy  cast,  so 
pleasing,  that  I  stayed  up.  A  singular  appearance  at- 
tracted my  notice.  '  How,'  said  I  to  one  of  the  boatmen, 
who  a  moment  before  had  made  me  an  offer  of  his  great- 
coat, '  how  do  you  account  for  that  calm,  silvery  spot  on 
-the  water,  which  moves  at  such  a  rate  in  the  line  of  our 
drift?'  He  started  up.  A  moment  after  he  called  on  the 
others  to  rise,  and  then  replied :  '  That  moving  speck  of 
calm  water  covers  a  shoal  of  herrings.  If  it  advances  a 
hundred  yards  farther  in  that  direction  we  shall  have  some 
employment  for  you.'  This  piece  of  information  made  me 
regard  the  little  patch,  which,  from  the  light  it  caught,  and 
the  blackness  of  the  surrounding  water,  seemed  a  bright 
opening  in  a  dark  sky,  with  considerable  interest.  It 
moved  onwards  with  increased  velocity.  It  came  in  con- 
tact with  the  line  of  the  drift,  and  three  of  the  buoys 
immediately  sunk.  A  few  minutes  were  suffered  to 
elapse,  and  we  then  commenced  hauling.  The  two  strong- 
est of  the  crew,  as  is  usual,  were  stationed  at  the  cork,  the 
two  others  at  the  ground  baulk.  My  assistance,  which  I 
readily  tendered,  was  pronounced  unnecessary ;  so  I  hung 
over  the  gunwale  watching  the  nets  as  they  approached  the 
side  of  the  boat.  The  three  first,  from  the  phosphoric  light 
of  the  water,  appeared  as  if  bursting  into  flames  of  a  pale- 
green  color.  The  fourth  was  still  brighter,  and  glittered 
through  the  waves  while  it  was  yet  several  fathoms  away, 
reminding  me  of  an  intensely  bright  sheet  of  the  aurora 
bor calls.  As  it  approached  the  side,  the  pale-green  of  the 
phosphoric  matter  appeared  as  if  mingled  with  large  flakes 
of  snow.  It  contained  a  body  of  fish.  '  A  white  horse  !  a 


256  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

white  horse  ! '  exelaimed  one  of  the  men  at  the  cork  baulk  ; 
'  lend  us  a  haul.'  I  immediately  sprang  aft,  laid  hold  on 
the  rope,  and  commenced  hauling.  In  somewhat  less  than 
half  an  hour  we  had  all  the  nets  on  board,  and  rather  more 
than  twelve  barrels  of  herrings. 

"  The  night  had  now  become  so  dark  that  we  could 
scarcely  discern  the  boats  which  lay  within  gunshot  of  our 
own  ;  and  we  had  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  position  of 
the  bank  except  by  sounding.  The  lead  was  cast,  and 
soon  after  the  nets  shot  a  second  time.  The  skipper's 
bottle  was  next  produced,  and  a  dram  of  whiskey  sent 
round  in  a  tin  measure  containing  nearly  a  gill.  We  then 
folded  down  the  sail,  which  had  been  rolled  up  to  make 
way  for  the  herrings,  and  were  soon  fast  asleep. 

"  Ten  years  have  elapsed  since  I  laid  myself  down  on 
this  couch,  and  I  was  not  then  so  accustomed  to  a  rough 
bed  as  I  am  now,  when  I  can  look  back  on  my  wanderings 
as  a  journeyman  mason  over  a  considerable  part  of  both 
the  Lowlands  and  Highlands  of  Scotland.  About  midnight 
I  awoke  quite  chill,  and  all  over  sore  with  the  hard  beams 
and  sharp  rivets  of  the  boat.  '  Well,'  thought  I,  '  this  is 
the  tax  I  pay  for  my  curiosity/  I  rose  and  crept  softly 
over  the  sails  to  the  bows,  where  I  stood,  and  where,  in  the 
singular  beauty  of  the  scene,  which  was  of  a  character  as 
different  from  that  I  had  lately  witnessed  as  is  possible  to 
conceive,  I  soon  lost  all  sense  of  every  feeling  that  was  not 
pleasure.  The  breeze  had  died  into  a  perfect  calm.  The 
heavens  were  glowing  with  stars,  and  the  sea,  from  the 
smoothness  of  the  surface,  appeared  a  second  sky,  as  bright 
and  starry  as  the  other,  but  with  this  difference,  that  all  its 
stars  appeared  comets.  There  seemed  no  line  of  division  at 
the  horizon,  which  rendered  the  illusion  more  striking. 
The  distant  hills  appeared  a  chain  of  dark,  thundery  clouds 
sleeping  in  the  heavens.  In  short,  the  scene  was  one  of 


A    NIGHT   ON    GUILLIAM.  257 

the  strangest  I  ever  witnessed ;  and  the  thoughts  and 
imaginations  which  it  suggested  were  of  a  character  as  sin- 
gular. I  looked  at  the  boat  as  it  appeared  in  the  dim  light 
of  midnight,  a  dark,  irregularly  shaped  mass ;  I  gazed  on 
the  sky  of  stars  above,  and  the  sky  of  comets  below,  and 
imagined  myself  in  the  centre  of  space,  far  removed  from 
the  earth,  and  every  other  world,  —  the  solitary  inhabitant 
of  a  planetary  fragment.  This  illusion,  too  romantic  to  be 
lasting,  was  dissipated  by  an  incident  which  convinced  me 
that  I  had  not  yet  left  the  world.  A  crew  of  south-shore 
fishermen,  either  by  accident  or  design,  had  shot  their  nets 
right  across  those  of  another  boat,  and  in  disentangling 
them  a  quarrel  ensued.  Our  boat  lay  more  than  half  a 
mile  from  the  scene  of  contention,  but  I  could  hear,  without 
being  particularly  attentive,  that  on  the  one  side  there  were 
terrible  threats  of  violence  immediate  and  bloody,  and  on 
the  other  threats  of  the  still  more  terrible  pains  and  penal- 
ties of  the  law.  In  a  few  minutes,  however,  the  entangled 
nets  were  freed,  and  the  roar  of  altercation  gradually  sunk 
into  silence  as  dead  as  that  which  had  preceded  it. 

"  An  hour  before  sunrise  I  was  somewhat  disheartened 
to  find  the  view  on  every  side  bounded  by  a  dense  low  bank 
of  fog,  which  hung  over  the  water,  while  the  central  firma- 
ment remained  blue  and  cloudless.  The  neighboring  boats 
appeared  through  the  mist  huge  misshapen  things,  manned 
by  giants.  We  commenced  hauling,  and  found  in  one  of 
the  nets  a  small  rock-cod  and  a  half-starved  whiting,  which 
proved  the  whole  of  our  draught.  I  was  informed  by  the  fish- 
ermen, that  even  when  the  shoal  is  thickest  on  the  Guilliam, 
so  close  does  it  keep  by  the  bank  that  not  a  solitary  her- 
ring is  to  be  caught  a  gunshot  from  the  edge  on  either  side. 

"  AVe  rowed  up  to  the  other  boats,  few  of  whom  had  been 
more  successful  in  their  last  haul  than  ourselves,  and  none 
equally  so  in  their  first.  The  mist  prevented  us  from  ascer- 


258  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

taining  by  known  landmarks  the  position  of  the  bank, 
which  we  at  length  discovered  in  a  manner  that  displayed 
much  of  the  peculiar  art  of  the  fisherman.  The  depth  of 
the  water  and  the  nature  of  the  bottom  showed  us  that  it 
lay  to  the  south.  A  faint,  tremulous  heave  of  the  sea, 
which  was  still  calm,  was  the  only  remaining  vestige  of  the 
gale  which  had  blown  from  the  west  in  the  early  part  of  the 
night,  and  this  heave,  together  with  the  current,  which  at 
this  stage  of  the  flood  runs  in  a  south-western  direction, 
served  as  our  compass.  We  next  premised  how  far  our 
boat  had  drifted  down  the  frith  with  the  ebb-tide,  and  how 
far  she  had  been  carried  back  again  by  the  flood.  We  then 
turned  her  bows  in  the  line  of  the  current,  and  in  rather 
less  than  half  an  hour  were,  as  the  lead  informed  us,  on  the 
eastern  extremity  of  Guilliam,  where  we  shot  our  nets  for 
the  third  time. 

u  Soon  after  sunrise  the  mist  began  to  dissipate,  and  the 
surface  of  the  water  to  appear  for  miles  around  roughened 
as  if  by  a  smart  breeze,  though  there  was  not  the  slightest 
breath  of  wind  at  the  time.  '  How  do  you  account  for  that 
appearance?'  said  I  to  one  of  the  fishermen.  'Ah,  lad, 
that  is  by  no  means  so  favorable  a  token  as  the  one  you 
asked  me  to  explain  last  night.  I  had  as  lief  see  the 
Bhodry-more.9  — '  Why,  what  does  it  betoken  ?  and  what 
is  the  Bhodry-more ?'  —  'It  betokens  that  the  shoal  have 
spawned,  and  will  shortly  leave  the  frith  ;  for  when  the  fish 
are  sick  and  weighty  they  never  rise  to  the  surface  in  that 
way  :  but  have  you  never  heard  of  the  Bliodry-more  9 '  I 
replied  in  the  negative.  '  Well,  but  you  shall.'  —  '  Nay,' 
said  another  of  the  crew,  '  leave  that  for  our  return ;  do 
you  not  see  the  herrings  playing  by  thousands  round  our 
nets,  and  not  one  of  the  buoys  sinking  in  the  water?  There 
is  not  a  single  fish  swimming  so  low  as  the  upper  baulks  of 
our  drift ;  shall  we  not  shorten  the  buoy  ropes,  and  take  off 


A    NIGHT   ON    GtJILLIAM.  259 

the  sinkers  ? '  This  did  not  meet  the  approbation  of  the 
others,  one  of  whom  took  up  a  stone,  and  flung  it  in  the 
middle  of  the  shoal.  The  fish  immediately  disappeared 
from  the  surface  for  several  fathoms  round.  '  Ah,  there 
they  go,'  he  exclaimed,  '  if  they  go  but  low  enough ;  four 
years  ago  I  startled  thirty  barrels  of  light  fish  into  my  drift 
just  by  throwing  a  stone  among  them.' 

"  The  whole  frith  at  this  time,  so  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  appeared  crowded  with  herrings  ;  and  its  surface  was 
so  broken  by  them  as  to  remind  one  of  the  pool  of  a  water- 
fall. They  leaped  by  millions  a  few  inches  into  the  air,  and 
sunk  with  a  hollow,  plumping  noise  somewhat  resembling 
the  dull,  rippling  sound  of  a  sudden  breeze ;  while  to  the 
eye  there  was  a  continual  twinkling  which,  while  it  mocked 
every  effort  that  attempted  to  examine  in  detail,  showed  to 
the  less  curious  glance  like  a  blue  robe  sprinkled  with 
silver.  But  it  is  not  by  such  comparisons  that  so  singular 
a  scene  is  to  be  described  so  as  to  be  felt.  It  was  one  of 
those  which  through  the  living  myriads  of  creation  testify 
of  the  infinite  Creator. 

"  About  noon  we  hauled  for  the  third  and  last  time,  and 
found  nearly  eight  barrels  of  fish.  I  observed,  when  haul- 
ing, that  the  natural  heat  of  the  herring  is  scarcely  less 
than  that  of  quadrupeds  or  birds  ;  that  when  alive  its  sides 
are  shaded  by  a  beautiful  crimson  color,  which  it  loses  when 
dead ;  and  that,  when  newly  brought  out  of  the  water,  it 
utters  a  sharp  faint  cry  somewhat  resembling  that  of  a 
mouse.  We  had  now  twenty  barrels  on  board.  The  east- 
erly har,  a  sea-breeze,  so  called  by  fishermen,  which  in  the 
Moray  Frith,  during  the  summer  months  and  first  month  of 
autumn,  commonly  comes  on  after  ten  o'clock  A.  M.,  and 
fails  at  four  o'clock  p.  M.,  had  now  set  in.  We  hoisted  our 
mast  and  sail,  and  were  soon  scudding  right  before  it. 

"  The  story  of  the  Bliodry-morey  which  I  demanded  of 


260  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

the  skipper  as  soon  as  we  had  trimmed  our  sail,  proved  in- 
teresting in  no  common  degree,  and  was  linked  with  a  great 
many  others.  The  Bliodry-more  *  is  an  active,  mischievous 
fish  of  the  whale  specie^,  which  has  been  known  to  attack 
and  even  founder  boats.  About  eight  years  ago  a  very 
large  one  passed  the  town  of  Cromarty  through  the  middle 
of  the  bay,  and  was  seen  by  many  of  the  townsfolks  leap- 
ing out  of  the  water  in  the  manner  of  a  salmon,  fully  to  the 
height  of  a  boat's  mast.  It  appeared  about  thirty  feet  in 
length.  This  animal  may  almost  be  regarded  as  the  mer- 
maid of  modern  times ;  for  the  fishermen  deem  it  to  have 
fully  as  much  of  the  demon  as  of  the  fish.  There  have 
been  instances  of  its  pursuing  a  boat  under  sail  for  many 
miles,  and  even  of  its  leaping  over  it  from  side  to  side.  It 
appears,  however,  that  its  habits  and  appetites  are  unlike 
those  of  the  shark  ;  and  that  the  annoyance  which  it  gives 
the  fisherman  is  out  of  no  desire  of  making  him  its  prey, 
but  from  its  predilection  for  amusement.  It  seldom 
meddles  with  a  boat  when  at  anchor,  but  pursues  one  under 
sail,  as  a  kitten  would  a  rolling  ball  of  3^arn.  The  large 
physalus  whale  is  comparatively  a  dull,  sluggish  animal ; 
occasionally,  however,  it  evinces  a  partiality  for  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  Bhodry-more.  Our  skipper  said  that,  when 
on  the  Caithness  coast,  a  few  years  before,  an  enormous 
fish  of  the  species  kept  direct  in  the  wake  of  his  boat  for 
more  than  a  mile,  frequently  rising  so  near  the  stern  as  to 
be  within  reach  of  the  boat-hook.  He  described  the  ex- 
pression of  its  large  goggle  eyes  as  at  once  frightful  and 
amusing ;  and  so  graphic  was  his  narrative  that  I  could 
almost  paint  the  animal  stretching  out  for  more  than  sixty 
feet  behind  the  boat,  with  his  black  marble-looking  skin 
and  cliff-like  fins.  He  at  length  grew  tired  of  its  gambols, 

*  Properly,  perhaps,  the  musculus  whale. 


SCENE   IN    THE    HIGHLANDS.  261 

i 
and  with  a  sharp  fragment  of  rock  struck  it  between  the 

eyes.  It  sunk  with  a  sudden  plunge,  and  did  not  rise  for 
ten  minutes  after,  when  it  appeared  a  full  mile  astern. 
This  narrative  was  but  the  first  of  I  know  not  how  many 
of  a  similar  cast,  which  presented  to  my  imagination  the 
Bltodry-more  whale  and  hunfish  in  every  possible  point  of 
view.  The  latter,  a  voracious,  formidable  animal  of  the 
shark  species,  frequently  makes  great  havoc  among  the 
tackle  with  which  cod  and  haddock  are  caught.  Like  the 
shark,  it  throws  itself  on  its  back  when  in  the  act  of  seiz- 
ing its  prey.  The  fishermen  frequently  see  it  lying  motion- 
less, its  white  belly  glittering  through  the  water,  a  few 
fathoms  from  the  boat's  side,  employed  in  stripping  off 
every  fish  from  their  hooks  as  the  line  is  drawn  over  it. 
This  formidable  animal  is  from  six  to  ten  feet  in  length, 
and  formed  like  the  common  shark." 

The  letters  on  the  Herring  Fishery  were  fitted  to  interest 
many  to  whom  the  poems  of  the  journeyman  mason  would 
be  a  sealed  book.  Whatever  might  be  his  rhyming  capa- 
bilities, the  Cromarty  mason  was  clearly  a  man  of  sense 
and  talent.  The  circle  of  his  friends  and  admirers  con- 
tinued, therefore,  to  widen.  In  character  of  occasional 
correspondent,  he  contributed  items  of  news  and  occasional 
articles  to  the  "  Inverness  Courier."  These  are  admirably 
done,  and  in  some  of  them  we  detect  impressions  and 
opinions  cherished  by  Miller  to  the  last.  The  following 
occurs  in  an  article  on  the  departure  of  two  hundred  emi- 
grants from  Cromarty  for  Canada:  "A  few  years  ago  we 
were  led  by  business  into  the  central  Highlands  of  the 
north.  We  passed  on  a  half-obliterated  path  through  a 
succession  of  those  wild  scenes  of  savage  sterility  and 
rude  grandeur,  which,  if  not  peculiar  to  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland,  only  occur  in  countries  whose  high  destiny  it  is 
not  to  be  conquered  by  a  foreign  enemy.  They  suggested 


262  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

to  us  a  series  of  pleasing  reflections.  Abrupt,  craggy  hills, 
separated  from  each  other  by  deep,  gloomy  ravines,  which 
seemed  the  rents  and  fissures  of  a  shattered  and  ruined 
planet,  and  which  varied  in  color,  according  to  their  dis- 
tance, from  the  faintest  azure  to  the  darkest  purple,  filled 
our  whole  space  of  view  from  the  foreground  to  the  horizon. 
Such,  we  thought,  are  the  barriers  which,  in  defiance  of  the 
armies  of  Rome  and  of  England,  maintained  the  spirit  of 
freedom  in  this  country  during  the  early  ages  of  its  history, 
and  which,  in  the  present  times,  oppose  an  insurmountable 
wall  of  defence  to  the  advances  of  an  enemy  equally 
potent  and  more  insidious.  That  luxury,  whose  waves  are 
rolling  over  and  obliterating  every  better  trait  of  character 
which  once  distinguished  the  Lowland  Scotch,  shall  find 
its  boundary  of  shore  on  the  skirts  of  these  mountains. 
Nations,  like  individuals,  become  old,  and  they  at  length 
expire ;  but,  though  symptoms  of  age  are  apparent  in  the 
southern  districts  of  the  kingdom,  those  of  the  northern 
Highlands  are  still  full  of  the  vigor  of  youth ;  and,  while 
the  moralist  may  find  reason  to  describe  the  inhabitants  of 
the  latter  as  a  remnant  of  people  happily  preserved  from 
the  inundation  which  has  devastated  the  plain  below,  the 
patriot  may  as  rationally  regard  them  as  thews  and  sinews 
of  the  State,  ready  to  be  exerted  in  preserving  to  our  other- 
wise enfeebled  country  her  name  and  place  among  the 
nations. 

u  These  agreeable  reflections  were  dissipated  by  the  con- 
templation of  a  scene  the  most  melancholy  we  ever  wit- 
nessed. Our  path  lay  along  the  brow  of  a  hill,  overlooking 
a  valley  that,  unlike  the  others  which  we  had  previously 
seen,  was  comparatively  level  and  of  considerable  extent. 
A  small  stream  winded  through  the  centre,  and  on  either 
side  there  were  irregularly  shaped  patches  of  vivid  green, 
which  were  encircled  by  the  brown  heath,  like  islands  by 


SCIENCE   AT   LAST.  263 

the  ocean.  As  we  advanced,  we  saw  the  ruins  of  deserted 
cottages,  and  perceived  that  the  patches  adjoining  had  once 
been  furrowed  by  the  plough.  All  was  solitary  and  deso- 
late. Roof-trees  were  decaying  within  mouldering  walls ; 
a  rank  vegetation  had  covered  the  silent  floors,  and  was 
wavering  over  hearths  the  fires  of  .which  had  been  forever 
extinguished.  A  solitary  lapwing  was  screaming  over  the 
cottages,  a  melancholy  raven  was  croaking  on  a  neighbor- 
ing eminence,  there  was  the  faint  murmur  of  the  stream, 
and  the  low  moan  of  the  breeze  ;  but  every  sound  of  man 
had  long  passed  from  the  air,  —  the  tones  of  speech  and 
the  voice  of  singing.  Alas  !  we  exclaimed,  the  Highlander 
has  at  length  been  conquered,  and  the  country  which  he 
would  have  died  to  defend  is  left  desolate.  The  track  of 
an  eastern  army  can  be  traced  many  years  after  its  march 
by  ruined  villages  and  a  depopulated  country.  Prophets 
have  described  scenes  of  future  desolation,  —  lands  once 
populous  grown  '  places  where  no  man  dwelleth  nor  son  of 
man  passeth  through,'  —  and  here  in  our  native  country  is 
a  scene  calculated  to  illustrate  the  terrible  threatenings  of 
prophecy,  and  the  sad  descriptions  of  Eastern  historians." 

Among  the  latest  of  these  contributions  to  the  u  Inver- 
ness Courier  "  is  one  which,  though  otherwise  unimportant, 
is  useful  in  a  biographical  point  of  view  as  helping  us  to 
trace  one  of  the  most  interesting  stages  in  Miller's  intel- 
lectual history,  the  transference,  namely,  of  his  enthusiasm 
and  ambition  from  literature  to  science.  A  short  news- 
paper article  on  crab-fishing  marks  the  point  at  which  the 
stream  of  scientific  acquirement  which  had  long,  with  gath- 
ering volume,  been  flowing  underground,  rose  to  the  sur- 
face. Miller  writes  as  one  who  has  from  infancy  been 
familiar  with  the  natural  objects  and  appearances  of  the 
Cromarty  beach,  and  who  had  not  written  about  them 


264  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

sooner  merely  because  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  they 
could  afford  occupation  to  his  pen.  He  does  not  yet  adopt 
a  scientific  nomenclature.  But  he  describes  natural  objects 
with  exquisite  precision  and  lucidity,  and  dwells  upon 
details  of  structure  which  the  mere  literary  sketcher  or 
anecdotic  sportsman  would  have  regarded  with  indifference. 
He  has  learned  also  to  contemplate,  not  in  vague  wonder 
but  with  reverent  and  delicate  appreciation,  the  mystery 
and  miracle  of  God's  work  in  nature.  "  I  am  confident," 
he  says,  in  concluding  a  description  of  the  sea-urchin, 
"  that  there  is  not  half  the  ingenuity,  or  -half  the  math 
ematical  knowledge,  displayed  in  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's, 
at  Rome,  or  St.  Paul's,  at  London,  that  we  find  exhibited 
in  the  construction  of  this  simple  shell."  It  is  not  without 
interest  that  we  note  a  like  impression  made  by  an  exami- 
nation of  the  same  animal  upon  the  mind  of  Edward  Forbes. 
"The  skill  of  the  Great  Architect  of  Nature,"  observes 
that  celebrated  naturalist,  "  is  not  less  displayed  in  the 
construction  of  a  sea-urchin  than  in  the  building  up  of  a 
world." 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MILLER   AND  HIS    NEW  FRIENDS  —  INTRODUCED   TO   PRINCIPAL 

BAIRD WILL    NOT    GO   TO   EDINBURGH   FOR   THE     PRESENT 

HIS     POEMS     DO     NOT    SELL CORRESPONDS     WITH    MR. 

ISAAC   FORSYTH  —  WILL    NOT   RELINQUISH    LITERARY   AMBI- 
TION. 

EFEEENCE  has  been  made  to  the  additions  to  the 
previously  limited  number  of  Miller's  friends  and 
acquaintances,  occasioned  by  the  publication  of 
his  poems.  It  is  in  no  ordinary  degree  pleasing  to 
observe  the  friendliness  which  he  experienced  from  persons 
greatly  his  superiors  in  social  position,  and  the  manner  in 
which  that  friendliness  was  responded  to  by  him.  On  the 
one  hand,  there  was  cordiality  without  the  faintest  trace  of 
the  "  insolence  of  condescension  ; "  counsel  and  furtherance 
of  every  kind  to  the  utmost  limit  permitted  by  genuine 
respect,  and  by  sympathetic  apprehension  of  what  a  sensi- 
tively proud  and  independent  nature  required ;  unfeigned 
recognition  of  the  intellectual  rank  of  this  artisan,  and  of 
the  title  it  gave  him  to  be  treated  as  a  gentleman.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  perfect  appreciation  of  all  this  ;  grat- 
itude not  for  patronage  to  the  mechanic,  but  for  fellowship 
and  sympathy  with  the  man  ;  independence  not  petulantly 
insisted  upon,  not  obtrusively  displayed,  but  quietly,  unaf- 
fectedly, almost  unconsciously  worn  as  habit  of  soul  and 
principle  of  deportment. 

Principal  Baird,  at  this  time  one  of  the  most  eminent 

265 


266  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ministers  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  was  among  the  first  to 
stretch  out  a  friendly  hand  to  the  Cromarty  poet.  Miller 
was  introduced  to  him  in  Inverness  by  Mr.  Carruthers, 
shortly  after  the  appearance  of  the  poems,  and  Baird  sug- 
gested that  he  should  draw  up  that  account  of  his  education 
and  opinions  which  has  been  so  frequently  mentioned.  The 
first  part  of  the  narrative  was  soon  ready,  and  Miller  de- 
spatched it,  in  the  autumn  of  1829,  to  Baird  in  Edinburgh. 
He  took  occasion,  at  the  same  time,  to  thank  Baird  for  "  the 
very  favorable  critique  "  on  the  poems  which  had  appeared 
in  the  "  Caledonian  Mercury."  The  critique  in  question  had 
been  written  by  Dr.  James  Brown,  working  editor  of  the 
"  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  and  Baird  hastens  to  declare 
that  he  "  had  no  hand  whatever,  directly  or  indirectly,"  in 
its  publication.  "  But  you  say  nothing,"  adds  Baird,  "  in 
your  letter  as  to  my  suggestion,  when  at  Inverness,  of  giv- 
ing your  busy  hours  to  your  profession  here  during  the  en- 
suing winter,  and  your  leisure  hours  to  reading  books,  and 
plying  your  pen,  and  extending  your  acquaintance  with  the 
living  as  well  as  the  dead  world  of  literature."  These 
words  occur  in  a  letter  dated  November  24,  1829.  We 
have  Miller's  reply,  bearing  date  the  9th  of  the  following 
December  :  "  From  my  engagements  here  and  at  Inverness, 
I  cannot  avail  myself  of  your  kind  invitation  to  spend  the 
winter  at  Edinburgh,  but  I  appreciate  its  value  and  feel 
grateful  for  your  kindness.  My  acquaintance  with  the  dead 
world  of  literature  is  very  imperfect,  and  it  is  still  more  so 
with  the  living ;  instead,  however,  of  regretting  this,  I 
think  it  best  to  congratulate  myself  on  the  much  pleasure 
which  from  this  circumstance  there  yet  remains  for  me  to 
enjoy.  If  I  live  eight  or  ten  years  longer,  and  if  my  taste 
for  reading  continues,  I  shall,  I  trust,  pass  through  a  great 
many  paradises  of  genius.  Half  the  creations  of  Scott  are 
still  before  me,  and  more  than  half  those  of  every  other 


LETTER    TO    BAIRD.  267 

modern  poet.  But  though  I  can  appreciate  the  value  of  an 
opportunity  of  perusing  the  works  of  such  authors,  there 
are  opportunities  of  a  different  kind  to  be  enjoyed  in  Edin- 
burgh, which,  from  a  rather  whimsical  bent  of  mind,  I  would 
value  more  highly.  My  curiosity  is  never  more  active  than 
when  it  has  the  person  of  a  great  man  for  its  object ;  nor 
have  I  felt  more  delight  in  anything  whatever  than  in  asso- 
ciating in  my  mind,  when  that  curiosity  was  gratified,  my 
newly  acquired  idea  of  the  personal  appearance  of  such  a 
man  with  the  ideas  I  had  previously  entertained  of  his 
character  and  genius.  When  I  resided  in  the  vicinity  of 
Edinburgh,  I  have  sauntered  for  whole  hours  opposite  the 
house  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse 
of  his  person ;  and  several  times,  when  some  tall,  robust 
man  has  passed  me  in  the  streets,  I  have  inquired  of  my 
companions  whether  that  was  not  Professor  Wilson.  But 
perhaps  I  am  more  ambitious  now  than  I  was  five  years  ago. 
Perhaps  I  would  not  be  satisfied  with  merely  seeing  such 
men,  and  I  am  aware  that  I  have  not  yet  done  anything 
which  entitles  me  to  the  notice  of  the  eminent,  though  in  one 
instance  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  attain  it.  I  must 
achieve,  at  least,  a  little  of  what  I  have  hoped  to  achieve 
before  I  go  to  Edinburgh.  But  even  this  intention  must 
not  be  followed  up  with  too  great  eagerness.  Ortogrul  of 
Basra,  after  he  had  surveyed  the  palace  of  the  vizir,  de- 
spised the  simple  neatness  of  his  own  little  habitation.  I 
must  be  careful  lest,  by  acquiring  too  exclusive  a  bent 
towards  literary  pursuits,  I  contract  a  distaste  for  those 
employments  which,  though  not  very  pleasing  in  themselves, 
are  in  my  case,  at  least,  intimately  connected  with  happi- 
ness. I  do  not  think  I  could  be  happy  without  being  inde- 
pendent, and  I  cannot  be  independent  except  as  a  me- 
chanic." 

It  is  evident,  from  the  terms  in  which  Dr.  Baird  refers  to 


268  THE  '  JOURNEYMAN. 

the  suggestion  made  by  him  to  Miller,  of  coming  to  Edin- 
burgh, that  the  latter  slightly  misunderstood  its  purport. 
The  account  of  the  interview  given  in  the  "  Schools  and 
Schoolmasters  "  forces  us  to  conclude  that  Miller  supposed 
Baird  to  have  advised  him  to  abandon  the  chisel  on  coming 
to  Edinburgh.  "The  capital  furnished,"  he  said,  —  the 
quotation  is  from  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  —  "  the 
proper  field  for  a  literary  man  in  Scotland.  What  between 
the  employment  furnished  by  the  newspapers  and  the  mag- 
azines, he  was  sure  I  would  effect  a  lodgment  and  work  my 
way  up."  Baird's  words  are  that  the  "  busy  hours  "  were 
to  be  given  to  the  stone-cutter's  profession,  and  the  "  lei- 
sure hours  "  to  literature.  Carruthers,  too,  was  as  pruden- 
tial in  his  advice  to  the  workman  as  he  was  ardent  in  his 
admiration  of  the  poet.  "  We  have  learned,"  he  said,  in  a 
commendatory  notice  of  the  poems,  "  with  much  satisfac- 
tion that  he  (Miller)  has  confined  his  devotion  to  the  Muses 
strictly  to  his  leisure  hours  ;  thus  his  industry  in  pursuing 
a  laborious  occupation  has  been  unremitting."  The  friend- 
liness both  of  Dr.  Baird  and  of  Mr.  Carruthers  was  too 
genuine  to  permit  indulgence  in  the  cheap  flattery  of  bid- 
ding Miller  abandon  his  trade  and  launch  into  the  perils  of 
a  literary  life  ;  and  he  had  the  manliness  and  sense  to  ap- 
preciate their  discretion  while  valuing  their  applause.  Mil- 
ler, not  unnaturally,  in  writing  the  "  Schools  and  School- 
masters," saw  the  advice  of  Baircl  through  the  coloring 
medium  of  many  years  of  literary  eminence. 

Among  those  who  interested  themselves  in  the  success  of 
his  first  venture,  none  were  more  zealous  than  Mr.  Isaac 
Forsyth,  of  Elgin.  But  the  efforts  of  Mr.  Forsyth  to  dis- 
pose of  the  copies  sent  him  from  Inverness  were  vain,  and 
that  although  he  had  "  never  embarked  in  any  such  concern 
with  so  much  enthusiasm,  nor  took  so  much  pains  to  secure 
success."  There  is  a  chivalrous  delicacy  in  Miller's  reply ; 


LETTER   TO    MR.    FORSYTE.  269 

he  contrives  to  extract  from  the  failure  of  his  friend  an 
additional  cause  for  gratitude  :  — 

"  When  I  look  back  to  the  fate  of  my  literary  specula- 
tions with  a  composure  approaching  to  indifference,  I  trust 
my  gratitude  to  the  gentleman  who  has  so  generously  ex- 
erted himself  in  striving  to  forward  these  is  not  at  all  in 
proportion  to  the  success  with  which  his  exertions  have  been 
repaid.  Nay,  sir,  I  consider  your  claim  on  me  to  have 
gained  in  strength  from  the  circumstance  of  your  having 
encountered  disappointment  in  my  behalf.  I  trust  I  may 
affirm  that  nature  has  bestowed  upon  me  a  disposition  which 
enables  me  to  conceive  of  the  sentiment  conveyed  in  the 
remarkable  text,  4  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  re- 
ceive ; '  and  though  fortune  seems  to  have  determined  that 
I  shall  be  no  bestower  of  benefits,  I  yet  know  from  expe- 
rience what  it  is  to  confer  an  obligation,  and  what  it  is, 
after  having  striven  to  oblige,  to  be  thwarted  in  the  inten- 
tion. In  the  one  case  I  have  derived  a  full  compensation 
for  what  I  had  done  from  that  lightness  of  heart  which 
accompanies  success,  and  from  the  consciousness  that,  by 
benefiting  a  fellow-creature,  I  had  in  some  degree  added  to 
the  sum  of  human  happiness.  But  in  the  other  I  have  felt 
differently.  In  that  depression  of  spirit  which  is  almost 
always  a  consequent  of  unsuccessful  exertion,  I  have  looked 
for  solace  to  something  external ;  and  have  felt  that  I  had 
a  claim  on  the  gratitude  of  the  party  in  whose  cause  I  had 
interested  myself,  not  only  for  what  I  had  attempted  to  do, 
but  also  for  what  I  had  suffered  from  the  disappointment 
which  attended  the  failure." 

So  much  by  way  of  acknowledgment  and  consolation  to 
Mr.  Forsyth ;  now  for  the  effect  of  his  literary  failure  upon 
himself:  — 

"  With  respect  to  literary  pursuits,  I  have  every  claim  to 
be  regarded  as  one  of  the  incurables  mentioned  by  Gold- 


270  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

smith.  At  this  moment,  when  I  can  look  back  to  the  com- 
plete failure  of  my  speculation,  I  am  as  determined  upon 
improving  to  the  utmost  my  ability  as  a  writer  as  I  could 
have  been  had  the  public,  by  buying  my  work,  rendered  the 
speculation  a  good  one.  With  only  my  present  ability  to 
judge  of  my  own  powers,  the  event  can  alone  determine 
whether,  when  I  have  attained  the  art  of  writing,  I  shall 
succeed  or  fail  in  making  myself  known.  But  could  I  de- 
cide whether  I  possess  or  be  devoid  of  true  genius,  it  would 
be  an  easy  matter  for  me  to  anticipate  the  result.  If  des- 
titute of  this  spirit,  I  shall  certainly  not  rise  to  eminence  ; 
for  my  situation  in  life  is  not  one  of  those  in  which  fortune 
or  the  influence  of  friends  can  supply  the  want  of  ability, 
or  in  which  mediocrity  of  talent  can  become  admirable  by 
clothing  itself  in  the  spoils  of  learning.  My  education  is 
imperfect ;  I  cannot  even  subsist  except  by  devoting  seven- 
eighths  of  my  waking  hours  to  the  avocations  of  a  labo- 
rious profession ;  and  I  have  no  claim  from  birth  to  either 
the  notice  of  the  eminent  or  the  patronage  of  the  influen- 
tial. But  if  nature  has  bestowed  upon  me  that  spirit  of 
genius  which  ultimately  can  neither  be  repressed  nor  hid- 
den, then,  though  fortune  should  serve  me  as  Jupiter  did 
Briareus  when  he  buried  him  under  Etna,  I  shall  assuredly 
overturn  the  mountain." 

Thomas  Pringle,  editor  at  this  time  of  an  annual  publi- 
cation called  "  Friendship's  Offering/'  had  seen  some  of 
Miller's  productions,  and  wrote  to  Mr.  Smith,  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Forsyth's,  pronouncing  him  u  a  person  of  no  ordinary 
talent  and  character."  Mr.  Forsyth  enclosed  Pringle's 
letter  in  that  to  which  Miller  is  now  replying,  and  Hugh 
proceeds,  in  the  paragraph  which  follows,  to  comment  upon 
it.  "I  am  acquainted  with  Mr.  Pringle  as  a  poet,  —  and 
an  admirable  poet  he  is,  combining  in  his  beautiful  pieces 
the  simplicity  of  the  ancient  ballad  with  that  elegance  of 


THOMAS   PRINGLE.  271 

style  and  delicacy  of  sentiment,  which  are  the  characteris- 
tics of  classical  poetry.  I  shall  not  venture,  however,  on 
addressing  him  by  letter.  The  friendship  of  such  a  man, 
however  valuable,  and  however  much  an  honor,  would 
scarcely  afford  me  the  pleasure  which  ought  to  be  derived 
from  it  unless  I  were  conscious  I  had  done  something  to 
deserve  it ;  and  at  present  I  can  have  no  such  conscious- 
ness. I  am  as  yet  only  a  little  fellow,  and  with  all  the 
jealousy  of  a  little  fellow  I  shall  conceal  my  insignificance, 
—  not  by  stalking  on  stilts  into  the  company  of  the  gigan- 
tic, but  by  immuring  myself  in  my'  solitude,  from  the  loop- 
holes of  which  I  shall  peep  at  them  as  I  best  may  ;  —  solici- 
tous both  to  see  and  to  avoid  being  seen."  He  next 
touches  on  his  correspondence  with  Principal  Baird.  "  I 
have  not  Of  late  heard  from  the  Principal ;  and  I  think  I 
have  a  shrewd  guess  of  the*cause  of  his  silence.  In  accord- 
ance to  his  advice,  I  sent  him  two  hundred  copies  of  my 
Poems,  which  he  was  to  use  his  influence  in  getting  sold ; 
but  that  influence,  great  as  it  necessarily  is,  has,  I  suspect, 
proved  insufficient  to  bring  into  notice  a  work  destined  not 
to  be  known,  —  perhaps  not  very  deserving  of  a  higher  des- 
tiny, —  and,  with  his  characteristic  benevolence,  he  is  un- 
willing to  give  me  pain  by  telling  me  so.  I  trust,  however, 
that  I  shall  yet  have  an  opportunity  of  convincing  him  that, 
though  only  an  indifferent  poet,  I  am  more  than  a  tolerable 
philosopher." 

It  was  remotely  and  but  for  a  moment  that  Hugh  Miller 
and  Thomas  Pringle  came  into  relation  with  each  other, 
and  yet  it  is  impossible  to  pass  on  without  saying  a  word 
of  one  whose  poems  justify  Miller's  fine  and  appropriate 
eulogy,  and  whose  life  merited-  eulogy  more  enthusiastic 
still.  Scotland,  among  her  many  noble  sons,  has  hardly 
sent  into  the  world  a  nobler  than  the  high-souled,  brilliant 
Pringle.  As  a  poet,  he  had  much  reputation  in  his  day, 


272  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

and  some  of  his  pieces  are  not  likely  soon  to  drop  into  ob- 
livion. Coleridge  declared  that  his  stanzas,  entitled  "  Afar 
in  the  Desert,"  are  to  be  classed  "  among  the  two  or  three 
most  perfect  lyric  poems  in  our  language."  His  u  Lion 
and  Giraffe  "  seems  to  be  the  original  from  which  Freili- 
grath  paraphrased  his  universally  known  "  Lion's  Ride." 
Nay,  if  one  could  trust  his  ear,  and  the  general  impression 
conveyed  by  the  poems,  it  might  be  suggested  that  tho  ring 
of  Pringle's  "  Lion  Hunt "  was  in  the  head  of  a  greater  than 
Freili grata  when  he  wrote,  "  How  they  brought  the  Good 
News  from  Ghent  to  Aix."  Browning's  poem  is  far  and 
away  the  greater  of  the  two,  but  its  picturesque  vividness 
and  manner  of  poetic  touch  recall  to  my  mind  at  least  the 
earlier  strain :  — 

"  Mount  —  mount  for  the  hunting  — with  musket  and  spear! 
Call  our  friends  to  the  field,  —  for  the  Lion  is  near ! 
Call  Arend  and  Ekhard  and  Groepe  to  the  spoor ; 
Call  Miiller  and  Coetzer  and  Lucas  Van  Vuur. 

"  Side  up  Eildon-Cleugh,  and  blow  loudly  the  bugle  ; 
Call  Slinger  and  Allic  and  Dikkop  and  Dugal ; 
And  George  with  the  elephant-gun  on  his  shoulder,  — 
In  a  perilous  pinch  none  is  better  or  bolder." 

And  if  all  else  that  Pringle  sang  were  to  pass  away,  surely 
that  one  verse  of  his  Farewell  to  Scotland  will  be  im- 
mortal :  — 

"  My  native  land,  my  native  vale, 

A  long,  a  last  adieu, 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 
And  Cheviot's  mountains  blue." 

But  the  poet  Pringle  yields  precedence  to  Pringle  the 
man.  His  very  defects  were  those  which  characterize 
heroic  minds.  Calculating  shrewdness,  caution,  mercantile 
prudence,  —  all  those  stunted  virtues  which,  like  the  treas- 


THOMAS   PRINGLE.  273 

ure-guarding  dwarfs  of  mediaeval  legend,  keep  the  portals 
of  worldly  success,  —  were  indeed  lacking  in  his  mental 
constitution.  But  what  capacity  of  self-sacrifice,  what 
chivalrous  generosity,  what  unquenchable  ardor  of  good- 
ness, dwelt  in  his  brqast !  Of  all  the  voices  raised  on  be- 
half of  the  slave,  not  one  was  more  purely,  passionately 
earnest  than  Pringle's.  And  not  for  the  slave  alone,  for 
every  human  being  to  whom  he  could  do  good,  was  Pringle 
zealous.  From  his  youth  he  had  experience  of  straitened 
circumstances,  he  knew  the  most  malignant  spite  of  foes, 
the  bitterest  apathy  and  listlessness  of  friend  and  patron ; 
but  in  the  heavenly  well  of  that  heart  the  wormwood  and 
the  gall  were  turned  to  sweetness. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

MILLER'S  POLITICAL  VIEWS  —  THE  CROMARTY  CHAPEL  CASE  — 
IN  CHARACTER  OF  VILLAGE  JUNIUS. 

CHOUGH  an  interested  and  intelligent  observer  of 
the  political  occurrences  of  his  time,  and  a  cordial 
supporter  of  Catholic  Emancipation,  the  Reform 
Bill,  and  those  other  measures  by  which  the  genius 
of  liberalism  was  then  putting  its  mark  on  the  institutions 
of  the  country,  Miller  was  never  what  is  commonly  under- 
stood as  an  ardent  politician.  One  of  the  ideas  which  he 
most  firmly  grasped,  and  which  had  throughout  his  whole 
career  a  powerful  influence  on  his  mind,  was  that  the  share 
which  the  inhabitants  of  any  particular  locality  can  take  in 
shaping  the  legislation  or  directing  the  policy  of  the  coun- 
try at  large  is  necessarily  too  small  to  deserve  their  close 
and  constant  attention.  When  a  great  constitutional  bat- 
tle was  to  be  fought ;  when  the  fate  of  an  important 
measure  depended,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Reform  Bill,  on  the 
unanimity  and  vehemence  of  the  popular  support,  —  he 
would  exert  himself  to  the  utmost.  But  he  held  that,  in 
ordinary  times,  it  was  business  of  a  more  local  and  less 
political  kind  which  came  home  to  the  bosoms  of  sensible 
men.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  everything  which  touched 
upon  the  relation  in  which  he  stood  to  his  parish  minister, 
and  became  naturally  the  spokesman  and  leader  of  those 
Cromarty  citizens  who  were,  in  matters  parochial,  like- 
minded  with  himself.  Questions  which,  seen  from  this  dis- 

274 


THE    "  CHAPEL    CASE."  275 

tance,  may  seem  to  be  mere  illustrations  of  the  infinitely 
little,  became  topics  of  agitating  concern  for  him,  and 
called  him,  pen  in  hand,  into  the  field  of  controversy. 

The  "  Cromarty  Chapel  Case "  has  vanished  from  the 
thoughts  and  recollections  of  almost  every  living  man ; 
but,  in  the  summer  of  1831,  it  was  profoundly  interesting* 
to  Hugh  Miller.  The  minister  of  the  Gaelic  Chapel,  in 
Cromarty,  had  petitioned  the  Presbytery  of  Chanonry,  that 
he  should  be  either  assigned  a  parish  within  the  bounds  of 
the  parish  of  Cromarty,  or  a  collegiate  charge  with  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Stewart.  By  granting  the  petition,  the  Presbytery 
would  have  done  one  of  two  things,  —  placed  all  Mr. 
Stewart's  parishioners  under  the  authority  of  the  pastor  to 
be  associated  with  him,  or  disjoined  one-half  of  the  parish- 
ioners from  Mr.  Stewart  altogether  and  handed  them  over 
to  the  petitioner.  The  latter  had  not  been  in  any  sense 
chosen  as  their  minister  by  Mr.  Stewart's  congregation ; 
they  had  chosen  Mr.  Stewart,  and  were  exceedingly  well 
pleased  with  him ;  they  pronounced,  therefore,  almost 
unanimously  against  the  proposed  arrangement.  As  the 
petition,  in  the  event  of  its  being  pushed  forward  by  its 
promoters,  would  ultimately  come  before  the  General 
Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  a  legal  gentleman  of 
Edinburgh  was  employed  to  prepare  the  way  for  its  favor- 
able reception  by  writing  it  up  in  an  Edinburgh  newspaper. 
Hugh  Miller  replied,  as  "  the  representative  of  nearly  eight 
hundred"  of  his  fellow-parishioners.  The  style  of  his 
letter  is  certainly  equal  to  the  grandeur  of  the  occasion. 
It  is  "  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  liberty "  which  he 
advocates,  and  he  is  willing  u  to  dare  the  worst  in  defence 
of  either."  He  concludes  with  a  fine  testimony  to  the 
merits  of  Mr.  Stewart.  "Permit  me,"  Mr.  Editor,  "before 
taking  leave  of  you  and  the  public,  to  state  once  more,  for 
myself  and  my  townsfolks,  one  great  cause  of  our  hostility 


276  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

to  the  deprecated  measure.  It  threatens  to  separate  us 
from  our  .minister.  Mr.  Stewart  was  the  man  of  our 
choice.  The  high  character  and  admirable  talents  of  this 
gentleman  were  alone  taken  into  account  when  we  called 
upon  him  to  preside  over  us  in  spiritual  things ;  after  an 
acquaintance  with  him  of  nearly  seven  years,  we  can  now 
testifjr  to  the  purity  of  that  character,  and  to  the  strength 
and  brilliancy  of  these  talents  ;  much  of  our  knowledge  of 
human  life  and  of  human  nature,  of  the  depravity  of  man 
and  of  the  goodness  of  the  Almighty,  has  been  derived 
from  him.  By  means  of  his  powerful  discourses  a  bene- 
ficial impulse  has  been  given  to  our  powers  of  thought ;  in 
these  discourses  no  inapt  images  or  absurd  conclusions  dis- 
turb the  conviction  that  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  are 
indeed  fraught  with  the  wisdom  of  God,  and  address  them- 
selves not  more  to  the  hearts  than  to  the  understandings  of 
men ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  they  are  marked  and  striking 
examples  of  the  established  law  of  criticism  and  logic,  that 
nothing  but  what  is  just  in  argument,  and  apt  and  beautiful 
in  illustration,  should  be  associated  with  what  is  morally 
good  and  spiritually  holy." 

This  letter,  signed  "  One  of  the  People,"  naturally  elicits 
a  reply  from  the  man  of  law;  and,  in  July,  1831,  Miller's 
rejoinder  appears  in  shape  of  a  thirty-six  page  pamphlet. 
In  it  Miller  plays  to  perfection  the  part  of  the  village 
Junius.  "  To  no  man  will  I  yield,  at  least  without  a 
struggle,  those  rights  and  privileges  which  have  been  be- 
queathed to  me  by  my  ancestors,  and  which  I  consider  it 
my  duty,  so  far  as  my  modicum  of  power  renders  me 
accountable,  to  transmit  uninjured  to  my  countrymen  of  a 
future  age."  There  is  one  passage  in  this  pamphlet  which 
has  considerable  biographical  value,  as  proving  that  Miller 
had  already  conceived  that  intense  aversion  for  Radicalism 
which  he  continued  throughout  life  to  cherish.  Sincere 


A   CROMARTY   JUNIUS.  277 

and  steady  as  he  was  in  his  Whiggism,  he  called  himself  a 
Whig  of  1688,  rather  than  a  Whig  of  1789.  "  There  is  a 
class  of  jmen,"  —  such  is  his  deliverance  on  Radicalism,  in 
1831,  —  "which,  in  the  present  day,  infests  almost  every 
civilized  country  of  Europe.  Like  the  desolating  locusts 
of  the  East,  the  members  of  this  class  are  terrible  when 
gathered  into  multitudes,  though  the  individuals,  singly 
considered,  be  tiny  and  contemptible  as  insects.  Opposi- 
tion, either  implied  or  direct,  is  their  peculiar  vocation. 
Though  sometimes  apparently  united  in  aim,  neither  in 
principle  nor  conduct  have  they  anything  in  common  with 
that  better  tribe  who  are  the  friends  and  advocates  of 
rational  liberty.  There  was  a  happy  allusion  made  to  the 
two  classes  by  a  philosophic  and  honest  statesman  in  his 
late  admirable  defence  of  a  popular  measure.  He  described 
that  measure  to  be  as  a  firmament  which  would  separate 
the  pure  waters  above  from  the  gross  and  turbid  pollution 
of  the  waters  below.  To  the  one  class  we  owe  the  Reforma- 
tion, and -every  right  and  institution  which  is  dear  to  us  as 
people  of  Scotland.  From  the  other  have  proceeded  many 
of  those  terrible  inflictions  on  mankind  which  the  historian 
shudders  to  relate.  We  trace  the  slime  of  those  reptiles  on 
almost  every  dark  page  of  the  annals  of  modern  Europe. 
They  have  catered  for  that  demon  of  Radicalism  which  has 
prowled  in  the  streets  and  lanes  of  our  cities,  and  lighted 
the  torch  of  that  fiend  of  Incendiarism  which  so  lately 
stalked  out  into  our  fields.  They  are  fast  defacing  the 
glories  of  the  second  revolution  of  France ;  and  their 
names  are  recorded  in  blood  on  the  frightful  atrocities  of 
the  first.  I  have  seen  much  of  the  people  of  this  class  in 
their  character  as  individuals,  and  regard  them  in  this 
character,  however  much  I  may  dread  them  in  the  aggre- 
gate, with,  I  trust,  a  proper  contempt.  I  have  ever  found 


278  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

them  to  be  as  devoid  of  genuine  talent  as  of  sterling  prin- 
ciple." 

Miller  takes  leave  of  his  antagonists  in  words  which, 
when  we  think  of  his  subsequent  championship  of  the  Free 
Church,  may  strike  us  as  almost  prophetic :  u  I  care  not, 
though  it  be  recorded  as  my  epitaph,  that  when  the  civil 
and  religious  rights  of  the  people  of  this  northern  parish 
were  assailed  by  a  hired  gladiator  of  the  law,  I,  one  of  that 
people,  encountered  the  hireling  on  his  own  field,  and  van- 
quished him  at  his  own  weapons.  For  the  future  you  are 
safe.  Should  I  again  appear  on  the  rough  arena  of  con- 
troversy, it  will  be  whon  the  barriers  are  encircled  by  a 
deeper  line  of  spectators,  and  to  grapple  with  some  more 
powerful  opponent."  Could  the  strut  and  stare  of  Junius 
have  been  more  felicitously  mimicked?  The  petitioners 
were  utterly  routed,  and  the  rights  and  privileges  which 
Miller  and  his  followers  had  derived  from  their  ancestors  in 
the  parish  of  Cromarty  continued  unimpaired.  Though 
"Whig  in  his  view  of  national  affairs,  he  commonly  acted  in 
local  matters  with  the  Conservatives  of  the  district. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

MISS    FRASER HER   PARENTAGE,    RESIDENCE    IN   EDINBURGH, 

POSITION    IN     CROMARTY SOCIETY     OF     THE     PLACE  —  MIL- 

LER'S     MANNER     AND     APPEARANCE A     FASCINATING    COM- 
PANION   HE  AND  MISS  FRASER  BECOME  LOVERS GLIMPSES 

OF   ROMANCE METAPHYSICAL   LOVE-MAKING A   NEW  AM- 
BITION    AWAKES     IN     MILLER FABLE      OF     APOLLO     AND 

DAPHNE    REVERSED LETTER    TO    MISS     FRASER AND    TO 

MRS.    FRASER.; 

UT  there  were  better  things  to  entertain  Hugh 
Miller  at  this  time  than  what  Mr.  Carlyle  might 
call  the  highly  unmemorable  polemics  of  the  parish 
of  Cromarty.  In  the  summer  of  1831  he  first  saw 
Miss  Lydia  Mackenzie  Fraser.  About  a  year  before,  when 
residing  with  relations  in  Surrey,  this  young  lady  had  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  mother,  in  which,  among  other  de- 
scriptive touches  relating  to  Cromarty,  occurred  the  follow- 
ing :  "  You  may  guess  what  are  its  literary  pretensions, 
when  I  tell  you  that  from  my  window  at  this  moment  I  see 
a  stone-mason  engaged  in  building  a  wall.  He  has  just 
published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  likewise  letters  on  the 
herring  fishery ;  both  of  which  I  now  send  you."  Miss 
Fraser  was  quick,  intelligent,  interested  in  literature  ;  this 
announcement  naturally  excited  her  curiosity.  On  coming 
to  Cromarty  she  did  not  for  some  time  see  the  poetic  stone- 
mason, and,  when  she  did,  he  was  not  aware  that  her  eyes 
rested  on  him.  She  and  her  mother  had  stepped  in  to  have 

279 


280  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

a  look  at  a  school  recently  opened  on  "  the  brae-head  "  of 
Cromarty,  when  a  man  entered,  looking  like  a  working-man 
in  his  Sunday  dress,  who,  as  a  whisper  from  her  mother  in- 
formed her,  was  Hugh  Miller.  She  was  struck  by  the  deep 
though tfulness  of  his  face  and  by  the  color  of  his  eyes,  "  a 
deep  blue,  tinged  with  sapphire."  The  first  occasion  on 
which,  for  his  part,  he  heard  her  name,  and  cast  an  atten- 
tive glance  upon  her  features,  was  that  which  is  described 
in  the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  He  was  talking  with 
two  ladies  beside  a  sun-dial  which  he  hacl  set  up  in  his 
uncle's  garden,  when  she  "  came  hurriedly  tripping  down 
the  garden-walk"  and  joined  the  group.  "  She  was,"  he 
adds,  "very  pretty  ;  and,  though  in  her  nineteenth  year  at 
the  time,  her  light  and  somewhat  petite  figure,  and  the  waxen 
clearness  of  her  complexion,  which  resembled  rather  that 
of  a  fab-  child  than  of  a  grown  woman,  made  her  look  from 
three*  to  four  years  younger."  Evidently,  though  he  saw 
her  but  for  a  few  minutes,  and  did  not  exchange  a  word 
with  her,  she  made  an  unusual  impression  upon  him. 

The  probability,  in  fact,  was,  that  this  young  lady  would 
form  an  important  addition  to  the  circle  of  his  acquaintance, 
and  to  that  of  the  intellectual  "  upper  ten"  in  Cromarty. 
Both  beauty  and  talent  had  been  among  the  attributes  of 
the  stock  from  which  she  sprung.  The  "  lovely  Barbara 
Hossack,"  and  several  other  women  noted  in  the  Highlands 
for  their  personal  attractions,  had  been  of  her  ancestry  on 
the  female  side ;  Provost  Hossack  of  Inverness,  trusted 
friend  of  President  Forbes  and  honored  intercessor  with  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland  for  the  vanquished  of  Culloden  ;  Mr. 
Lachlan  Mackenzie,  famed  Highland  preacher,  of  whom  tra- 
dition in  the  northern  Scotch  counties  has  much  to  report ; 
and  the  Mackenzies  of  Redcastle,  "  said  to  be  the  most 
ancient  house  in  the  north  of  Scotland,"  had  been  among 
her  kindred  in  the  line  of  male  descent.  Her  father,  nota- 


MISS   ERASER.  281 

bly  handsome  in  youth,  and  famous  in  Strathnairn  as  a 
deer-stalker,  entered,  later  in  life,  into  business  in  Inver- 
ness, and  was  at  first  prosperous,  but,  being  generous  and 
unsuspecting  to  a  fault,  was  robbed  by  a  clerk  and  beguiled 
by  a  relative,  and  at  last  overborne  by  disappointments  and 
difficulties. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Fraser,  his  widow,  possessing 
some  small  property  of  her  own,  went  to  live  in  Cromarty. 
His  daughter  had  been  taken  away  by  relatives  in  Surrey 
when  his  affairs  were  getting  into  confusion.  She  had  re- 
ceived the  best  education  obtainable  at  the  time  by  young 
ladies.  Having  resided  in  Edinburgh  in  the  house  of  Mr. 
George  Thomson,  the  correspondent  of  Burns,  she  had  had  the 
benefit  not  only  of  being  instructed  by  Edinburgh  masters, 
but  of  being  introduced  to  a  singularly  pleasant  and  rather 
distinguished  circle  of  society.  George  Thomson  attracted 
to  his  musical  parties  the  most  skilful  and  enthusiastic  vota- 
ries of  Scottish  music  in  Edinburgh.  Nor  were  literature 
and  art  unrepresented  at  those  gatherings.  Scott  himself, 
never  out  of  his  element  when  kindness  and  intelligence 
ruled  the  hour,  had  appeared  sometimes  among  Thomson's 
guests,  though  this  was  before  Miss  Fraser  became  an  in- 
mate of  his  dwelling.  James  Ballantyne  and  his  brother 
Alexander  were  frequently  of  the  number.  James  had  the 
gift  of  singing  "  Tullochgorum "  with  rough  heartiness. 
Alexander  was  an  exquisite  violinist.  Pieces  from  Beetho- 
ven, Mozart,  and  their  compeers,  were  performed  at  those 
parties,  Thomson's  preference  for  Scottish  .music  by  no 
means  rendering  him  insensible  to  the  claims  of  other 
schools.  Thomson  of  Duddingston,  who,  when  clear  and 
unapproached  pre-eminence  has  been  allowed  to  Turner, 
must  be  placed  high  among  the  landscape  painters  not  only 
of  Scotland  but  of  Great  Britain,  was  sometimes  present, 
attracted,  perhaps,  by  the  original  portrait  of  Burns  by 


282  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

Nasmyth,  or  Wilkie's  Auld  Eobin  Gray,  both  of  which 
adorned  George  Thomson's  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Grant  of 
Laggan  and  Tennant  of  "  Anster  Fair  "  figured  among  the 
literary  celebrities. 

A  young  lady,  of  great  natural  ability,  accustomed  to 
polite  society  in  Surrey,  and  advantageously  educated  and 
introduced  in  Edinburgh,  would  be  likely  to  shine  in  the 
intellectual  circle  of  Cromarty.  For  a  very  small  town, 
Cromarty  was  happy  in  the  quality  of  its  inhabitants.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Stewart  was  the  central  star  in  its  social  firma- 
ment, his  supremacy  beginning  about  this  time  to  be  dis- 
puted by  Miller.  Not  that  there  was  any  thought  of  rivalry 
or  of  jealousy  on  either  side ;  they  were  the  closest  and 
most  faithful  friends  ;  but  that  the  reputation  of  Miller  even 
in  its  dawn  shot  its  rays  to  a  wider  horizon  than  had  as  yet 
been  reached  by  Mr.  Stewart's,  and  that  the  culture  of  the 
minister  was,  in  all  save  theological  reading  and  grammati- 
cal knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin,  narrower  than  that  of 
the  parishioner.  A  colonel,  a  captain,  both  intelligent  be- 
yond the  average  of  their  class,  with  ladies  to  match,  a 
banker  who  had  been  an  officer  in  the  navy,  and  retained 
professional  enthusiasm  enough  to  make  him  study  naval 
history  until  he  became  a  walking  encyclopaedia  of  infor- 
mation on  sea-battles,  —  these,  with  a  variety  of  studious 
and  accomplished  ladies,  eminent,  some  for  Calvinistic  met- 
aphysics, some  for  geological  predilections,  made  up  the 
cluster  of  notabilities  which  circled  round  Alexander  Stew- 
art and  Hugh  Miller,  the  Duke  and  the  Goethe  of  this  min- 
iature Weimar.  The  women  had  their  full  share  of  tht 
intellect  of  the  place,  or  more.  "  By  much  the  greater  half 
of  the  collective  mind  of  the  town,"  says  Miller  in  one  of 
his  letters,  "  is  vested  in  the  ladies."  It  speaks  for  the 
sterling  worth  as  well  as  the  intellectual  penetration  of  the 
Cromarty  notables,  that  they  welcomed  to  a  footing  of  per- 


CROMARTY    SOCIETY.  283 

feet  social  equality  the  man  who  was  to  be  seen  any  fore- 
noon, bare-armed,  clusty-visaged,  with  mallet  in  hand  and 
apron  in  front,  making  his  bread  by  cutting  inscriptions  in 
the  church-yard.  With  Miller  any  intercourse  but  that  of 
perfect  equality  would  have  been  impossible.  Diffident  in 
company  as  he  was,  his  pride  was  as  inflexible  as  that  of 
Burns,  and,  if  possible,  more  sensitive.  The  slightest  trace 
of  condescending  patronage  would  have  driven  him  away, 
and  forever.  The  colonels  and  captains  who  were  to  be 
found  in  country  towns  at  this  period  were  generally  men 
of  the  French  war,  men  who  had  seen  enough  of  life  and 
action  to  bring  out  the  stronger  lines  in  their  character, 
men  frank  of  bearing,  direct  of  speech,  and  perfectly  brave. 
In  the  Highland  towns  they  were  likely  to  be  cadets  of  old 
Highland  houses.  Constitutional  fondness  for  war,  concur- 
rently with  shallowness  of  the  paternal  purse,  had  led  many 
such  into  the  army.  Pride  as  well  as  courage  was  likely  to 
be  hereditary  with  these  military  gentlemen,  and  it  is,  I  re- 
peat, to  the  credit  of  those  of  Cromarty  that  they  recog- 
nized Miller  for  what  he  was,  a  man  qualified  to  adorn  and 
delight  any  circle. 

Once  the  singularity  of  admitting  a  stone-mason  to  social 
fellowship  was  got  over,  the  charm  of  Miller's  acquaintance 
would  secure  his  footing.  All  who  knew  him  with  any 
degree  of  intimacy  have  testified  to  the  fascination  of  his 
presence.  For  women  in  particular  his  manner  and  conver- 
sation had  an  exquisite  charm.  The  leonine  roughness  of 
his  exterior,  the  shaggy  hair,  the  strong-boned,  overhanging 
brows,  the  head  carried  far  forward  and  shoulders  bent  as 
with  brooding  thought,  the  working-man's  gait  and  gesture, 
lent  the  enchantment  of  a  delicate  surprise  to  the  deep  gen- 
tleness which  they  disguised.  Never  was  the  difference 
between  the  conventional  gentleman  and  the  true  gentle- 
man —  the  possibility  that  one  may  be  every  inch  a  true 


284  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

gentleman  and  yet  every  inch  not  a  conventional  gentle- 
man —  more  signally  illustrated  than  in  the  case  of  Miller. 
A  fine  and  tender  sympathy,  the  soul  of  politeness,  enabled 
him,  spontaneously,  unconsciously,  to  feel  with  every  feel- 
ing, to  think  with  every  thought,  of  the  person  with  whom 
he  conversed.  The  faculty  of  skilful  and  kindly  listening 
is  rarer  even  than  that  of  fluent  and  brilliant  talk,  and  Mil- 
ler had  it  in  fine  perfection.  He  had,  however,  the  gift  of 
captivating  speech,  as  well.  His  conversation,  though 
never  voluble,  impulsive,  precipitate,  exhibited  the  action 
not  only  of  a  powerful  but  of  an  educated  intellect,  prac- 
tised in  logic  and  trained  to  the  expert  use  of  its  linguistic 
instruments.  He  never  was  at  a  loss  for  an  idea,  never  at 
a  loss  for  a  word,  and  the  stores  of  his  memory  afforded 
him  an  exhaustless  supply  of  illustration  from  what  he  had 
seen  in  nature  or  read  in  books.  There  was  a  pensiveness, 
also,  in  his  tone,  a  profound  sadness  in  his  eye,  a  touch  of 
egotistic  melancholy  about  him,  which  is  a  spell  of  absolute 
enthralment  for  most  women,  and,  indeed,  for  most  men. 
"  The  bewitching  smile, "  says  Mr.  Disraeli,  "  usually  beams 
from  the  grave  face.  It  is  then  irresistible." 

Miss  Fraser,  as  we  should  have  expected,  was  not  with- 
out admirers  of  the  other  sex  at  the  time  when  she  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  Hugh  Miller.  They  were  "  younger 
and  dressed  better  "  than  the  stone-mason,  and  had  chosen 
"  the  liberal  professions."  But  no  man  has  so  strong  an 
attraction  for  a  superior  girl  as  a  man  of  brains,  and  Mil- 
ler's seniority  of  ten  years  was  in  his  favor  rather  than  the 
reverse,  in  the  contest  with  more  juvenile  rivals.  Miss 
Fraser,  meeting  him  here  and  there  in  society,  was  inter- 
ested by  his  conversation.  On  sunny  forenoons,  she  might 
pause  in  her  walk  to  have  a  chat  with  him  in  the  church- 
yard. On  which  side  the  friendship  first  glowed  into  a 
warmer  feeling  need  not  be  determined  ;  probably  they  be- 


ROMANCE.  285 

came  lovers  almost  simultaneously ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
this  his  first  and  last  love  took  entire  possession  of  Miller's 
heart. 

A  number  of  materials,  —  letters  of  the  period,  memo- 
randa, note-books,  —  illustrative  of  this  part  of  his  history, 
have  come  into  my  hands,  and  from  these  I  have  selected 
at  my  own  discretion,  and  on  my  own  responsibility,  fefere 
is  a  glimpse  of  him  from  an  authentic  source,  when  he 
seems  to  have  been  already  pretty  far  gone  :  "  One  evening 
we  (Miss  Fraser  and  Hugh  Miller)  encountered  each  other 
by  chance  in  a  wooded  path  of  the  hill,  above  which  slope 
a  few  cultivated  fields  skirted  by  forest.  Hugh  Miller  pre- 
vailed on  me  to  accompany  him  to  a  point  which  commands 
a  fine  view  of  the  frith  and  surrounding  county.  We  sat 
down  to  rest  at  the  edge  of  a  pine  wood,  in  a  little  glade 
fragrant  with  fallen  cones,  and  ankle-deep  in  the  spiky 
leaves  of  the  firs.  I  sat  on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree.  He 
threw  himself  on  the  ground,  two  or  three  yards  from  my 
feet.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  lighted  up  the  pillared 
trunks  around  with  a  deep,  copper-colored  glow.  Hugh 
took  out  a  volume  of  Goldsmith.  When  did  he  ever  want 
a  companion  of  that  description  ?  He  read  in  a  low  voice 
the  story  of  Edwin  and  Angelina.  It  was  then  I  first  sus- 
pected that  he  had  a  secret  which  he  had  not  revealed." 

Things  had  reached  this  rather  critical  posture  when  Mrs. 
Fraser,  alarmed  at  the  notion  that  her  daughter  might 
bestow  her  heart  and  hand  on  a  mechanic,  commanded  that 
the  intimacy  should  be  broken  off.  The  young  lady  was 
disconsolate  ;  wept  much  ;  felt  "  like  a  poor  little  parasite 
which  had  succeeded  in  laying  hold  of  some  strong  and 
stately  tree,  and  which  a  powerful  blast  had  laid  prostrate 
in  the  dust."  Under  these  circumstances  the  following 
entry  from  the  same  hand  will  not  seem  surprising :  — 

"  It  was  late  on  the  evening  of  a  very  hot  surnmer«Sab- 


286  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

bath  during  the  time  of  interdict,  that,  feeling  listless  and 
weary,  I  crept  out  a  little  to  breathe  the  air.  I  had  no 
intention  of  walking,  —  did  not  even  put  on  bonnet  or  shawl. 
I  stole  down  the  grassy  garden-path  and  listened  to  the 
murmur  of  the  sea,  whose  waves  beat  on  the  shore  at  a 
stone's  throw  beyond.  But  the  night  was  still  sultry,  and  I 
imagined  that,  by  getting  to  the  top  of  some  eminence,  I 
might  find  the  cooling  breeze  for  which  I  longed.  So  I 
found  myself,  I  scarcely  knew  how,  at  the  ancient  chapel  of 
St.  Regulus.  There  the  trees  which  line  the  sides  of  the 
ravine  by  which  it  is  surrounded  waved  the  tops  of  their 
branches,  the  blue  sea  looked  forth  between,  and  as  the 
twilight  gave  place  to  night  the  stars  began  to  twinkle 
forth.  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  enjoying  the  slight 
breeze  and  the  soft  brightness  of  earth  and  sky,  when  sud- 
denly I  perceived  that  Hugh  stood  beside  me.  He  spoke 
of  the  sweetness  of  the  evening,  the  beauty  of  the  landscape, 
and  so  on ;  but  his  speech  was  cold  and  reserved,  and  he 
made  no  allusion  to  our  peculiar  position.  Possibly  his 
pride  was  touched  by  it.  At  that  very  time,  however, 
as  he  afterwards  told  me,  he  cut  a  notch  in  the  wood  of  a 
beam  which  crossed  the  roof  of  his  cottage  for  every  day  on 
which  we  had  not  met.  He  stayed  but  a  short  time  there, 
leaving  me  standing  just  where  he  had  found  me  ;  but  there 
was  no  notch  on  that  clay.  I  on  my  part  knelt  at  a  cold 
gravestone,  and  registered  over  the  dead  a  vow,  rash  and 
foolish  perhaps  ;  but  it  was  kept." 

From  these  suggestive  glimpses,  readers  of  imagination 
and  sensibility  will  gather  all  the  information  that  is  neces- 
sary upon  the  subject.  This  love  affair  was  clearly  ro- 
mantic, but  not  the  less  real  on  that  account.  A  judicious 
mother,  reflecting  probably  that  young  ladies  of  nineteen 
are  not  likely  to  cease  to  love  for  being  told  to  do  so,  re- 
movfcd  the  interdict,  and,  though  marriage  was  for  the 


ROMANCE.  287 

present  to  be  considered  as  out  of  the  question,  the  young 
people  were  permitted  to  enjoy  each  other's  society. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  intellectual 
benefit  of  their  intercourse  was  entirely  on  the  side  of  the 
lady.  Her  mind,  if  not  so  well  stored,  so  deliberate,  so 
patiently  thoughtful,  as  that  of  her  lover,  had  the  piercing 
clearness  and  acuteness  of  good  female  intellect,  and  would 
sometimes  strike  direct  to  the  heart  of  a  subject  when  cir- 
cumspect and  meditative  Hugh  was  gyrating  round  and 
round  it.  On  one  occasion,  for  example,  —  one  probably 
of  many,  —  the  pair  had  enjoyed  a  game  of  chop-logic 
apropos  of  that  venerable  problem,  the  origin  of  evil. 
Miller's  argument,  as  placed  before  Miss  Fraser,  I  cannot 
state  in  his  own  words,  but  its  substance  is  derivable  from 
a  letter  of  his  to  Miss  Dunbar  of  Boath.  "  May  not  evil," 
suggests  Hugh,  who,  however,  pronounces  the  question,  in 
the  essence  of  it,  unanswerable,  "  be  the  shade  with  which 
good  is  contrasted  that  it  may  be  known  as  good,  the  sick- 
ness to  which  it  is  opposed  as  health,  the  deformity  beside 
which  it  is  shown  forth  as  beauty?  Nay,  may  it  not  be 
affirmed  that  the  plan  of  the  Deity  would  not  have  been  a 
perfect  one  if  it  did  not  include  imperfection,  nor  a  wise 
one  if  it  admitted  not  of  folly,  nor  a  good  one  if  evil  did 
not  form  a  part  of  it  ?  Is  there  not  something  like  this  im- 
plied in  the  remarkable  text  which  informs  us  that  the 
weakness  of  God  is  mightier  than  the  strength  of  men,  and 
his  foolishness  more  admirable  than  their  wisdom  ?  "  All 
which  plausible  balancing  of  advantage  and  disadvantage, 
Miss  Fraser  brings  front  to  front  with  the  sheer  mystery 
of  pain.  "Allowing,"  she  writes,  "that  the  actual  con- 
trast between  good  and  evil,  ease  and  suffering,  increased 
our  value  for  the  ease  and  the  good,  how  reconcile  with  our 
ideas  of  justice  the  fact  that  there  are  thousands  born  to 
suffer  continual  pain  and  to  be  depraved  forever?  Two 


288  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

thousand  gladiators  once  lay  expiring  in  the  Eoman  Am- 
phitheatre, but  does  it  reconcile  us  to  the  fact  that  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  spectators  were  delighted  with  the 
scene?'  This  metaphysician,  for  all  her  petite  figure, 
waxen  clearness  of  complexion,  and  childlike  appearance, 
has  not,  to  my  knowledge,  received  a  satisfactory  answer 
to  her  question  either  from  Hugh  Miller  or  any  one  else. 
Such  a  lady-love  was  capable  of  furnishing  intellectual  dia- 
mond dust  of  very  superior  quality  for  the  sharpening  of  a 
man's  wits. 

Miss  Eraser's  intercourse  with  Miller  —  the  relation  in 
which  he  was  now  placed  with  her  —  was  beneficial  to  him 
in  another  way.  It  broke  up  the  theory  of  life  which  he 
had  formed  for  himself,  and  replaced  it  by  one  of  a  more 
masculine  character.  Profoundly  imbued  as  he  was  with 
the  ambition  of  self-culture,  and  loving  praise  with  the  ar- 
dor of  a  born  literary  man,  he  was  nevertheless  firmly  per- 
suaded that,  in  the  rank  of  mason,  in  the  town  of  Cromarty, 
he  could  enjoy  as  much  happiness  as  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  enjoy  on  earth.  A  wife,  he  thought,  he  could  dis- 
pense with ;  no  passion,  except  the  passions  of  the  mind, 
had  ever  seriously  moved  him  ;  and  though  he  took  special 
delight  in  conversation  with  clever  women,  he  could  have 
that  conversation  without  marriage.  He  would  ply  the 
mallet  in  the  summer  da}^s ;  he  would  owe  no  man  a  six- 
pence ;  he  would  read  his  favorite  books  in  the  evenings  of 
June  and  the  short  days  of  December  ;  he  would  train  him- 
self to  ever-increasing  vigor  and  grace  of  style,  and  would 
write  with  the  fresh  enthusiasm  of  one  for  whom  literature 
was  its  own  reward.  Thus  was  he  contented  to  live  and  to 
die ;  the  world,  it  was  his  inflexible  conviction,  had  noth- 
ing better  than  this  to  offer  him.  If  the  question  were  sim- 
ply of  more  or  less  happiness,  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove 
that  in  all  this  he  was  wrong.  The  quality,  however,  of  the 


A    NEW    AMBITION.  289 

happiness  would  not  have  been  the  highest,  and  he  might 
have  awakened  from  his  idyl  of  intellectual  luxury  to  the 
consciousness  that,  in  evading  the  pains  of  action,  he  had 
missed  the  sternest  but  the  noblest  joys  of  life.  When 
Miss  Fraser  taught  him  to  understand  the  love-poetry  of 
Burns,  as  he  expressly  says  she  did,  he  bade  adieu  forever, 
though  not  without  a  sigh,  to  the  tranquil  hopes  which  had 
hitherto  inspired  him.  He  told  Miss  Fraser  that  she  had 
spoiled  a  good  philosopher,  and  it  was  with  no  exultation, 
though  with  calm  and  fixed  resolution,  that  he  felt  the 
spirit  of  the  philosophic  recluse  die  within  him  and  the 
spirit  of  the  man  arise.  The  classic  fable  was  reversed. 
Daphne  overtook  and  disenchanted  her  lover.  Miller 
awoke  from  the  dream  which  was  stealing  over  him ;  the 
roots  which  had  already  struck  deep  into  his  native  soil, 
and  which  promised  to  bind  him  down  to  a  mild,  tree-like 
existence  on  the  hill  of  Cromarty,  were  snapped  asunder ; 
a  stronger  circulation  swept  in  fierce  thrills  along  his  veins  ; 
and  with  new  hope,  new  ambition,  new  aspiration,  he 
girded  up  his  loins  for  the  race  of  life.  Hitherto,  "  he  pro- 
fessed just  what  he  felt,  to  be  content  with  a  table,  a  chair, 
and  a  pot,  with  a  little  fire  in  his  grate  and  a  little  meat  to 
cook  on  it."  He  professed  such  contentment  no  longer ; 
for  himself  he  could  have  lived  and  died  a  working-man,  but 
he  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  his  wife  being  in  any  rank 
save  that  of  a  lady. 

Habitually  self-conscious,  observant  of  every  event  in 
his  mental  history,  Miller  did  not  fail  to  mark  the  change 
which  had  passed  over  him.  In  a  letter  written  in  the 
summer  of  1834  he  describes  it  with  grace,  naivete,  arid 
lightness  of  touch,  to  her  who  was  its  cause.  The  first  part 
of  the  letter  is  unimportant,  but  it  may  as  well  be  inserted 
for  the  illustration  it  affords  of  his  simple  and  pleasurable 
mode  of  life  in  Cromarty  at  this  period :  — 


290  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

"  CROMARTT,  Wednesday,  12  o'clock. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  still  unwell.  Your  window  was 
shut  till  near  ten  this  morning,  and  as  I  saw  no  light 
from  it  last  evening  I  must  conclude  you  went  early  to 

bed.  How  very  inefficient,  my  L ,  are  the  friendships  of 

earth !  My  heart  is  bound  up  in  you,  and  yet  I  can  only 
wish  and  regret,  and,  —  yes,  pray.  Well,  that  is  some- 
thing. I  cannot  regulate  your  pulses,  nor  dissipate  your 
pains,  nor  give  elasticity  to  }^our  spirits  ;  but  I  can  implore 
on  your  behalf  the  great  Being  who  can.  Would  that  both 
for  your  sake  and  my  own  my  prayers  had  the  efficacy  of 
those  described  by  simple-hearted  James  !  *  They  are  sin- 
cere, my  L ,  when  you  form  the  burden  of  them,  but 

they  are  not  the  prayers  of  the  righteous.  .  .  . 

"  My  mother,  as  you  are  aware,  has  a  very  small  garden 
behind  her  house.  It  has  produced,  this  season,  one  of  the 
most  gigantic  thistles  of  the  kind  which  gardeners  term  the 
Scotch,  that  I  ever  yet  saw.  The  height  is  fully  nine  feet, 
the  average  breadth  nearly  five.  Some  eight  years  ago  I 
intended  building  a  little  house  for  myself  in  this  garden. 
I  was  to  cover  it  outside  with  ivy,  and  to  line  it  inside  with 
books  ;  and  here  was  I  to  read  and  write  and  think  all  my 
life  long ;  not  altogether  so  independent  of  the  world  as 
Diogenes  in  his  tub,  or  the  savage  in  the  recesses  of  the 
forest,  but  quite  as  much  as  is  possible  for  man  in  his  social 
state.  Here  was  I  to  attain  to  wealth,  not  by  increasing  my 
goods,  but  by  moderating  my  desires.  Of  the  thirst  after 
wealth  I  had  none,  —  I  could  live  on  half  a  crown  per  week 
and  be  content ;  nor  yet  was  I  desirous  of  power,  —  I 
sought  not  to  be  any  man's  master,  and  I  had  spirit  enough 
to  preserve  me  from  being  any  man's  slave.  I  had  no 

*  "  The  effectual,  fervent  prayer  of  a  righteous  man  availeth 
much."  —  James  v.  16. 


PAST   AND    PRESENT.  291 

heart  to  oppress ;  why  wish,  then,  for  the  seat  or  the 
power  of  the  oppressor?  I  had  no  dread  of  being  subjected 
to  oppression ;  did  the  proudest  or  the  loftiest  dare  in- 
fringe on  my  rights  as  a  man,  there  might  be  disclosed  to 
him,  perchance, 

"  *  Through  peril  and  alarm 
The  might  that  slumbered  in  a  peasant's  arm.' 

Even  for  fame  itself  I  had  no  very  exciting  desire.  If  I 
met  with  it  in  quest  of  amusement,  well ;  if  not,  I  could  be 
happy  enough  without  it.  So  much  for  the  great  disturbers 
of  human  life,  —  avarice  and  ambition,  and  the  thirst  of 
praise.  My  desires  were  not  tall  enough  to  penetrate  into 
those  upper  regions  which, they  haunt;  I  was  too  low  for 
them,  and  for  the  inferior  petty  disturbers  of  men's  happi- 
ness I  was  as  certainly  too  high.  Love,  for  instance,  I 
could  have  nothing  to  fear  from.  I  knew  myself  to  be 
naturally  of  a  cool  temperament ;  and,  then,  were  not  my 
attachments  to  my  friends  so  many  safety-valves !  Be- 
sides, no  woman  of  taste  could  ever  love  me,  for  I  was 
ugly  and  awkward  ;  and  as  I  could  love  only  a  woman  of 
taste,  and  could  never  submit  to  woo  one  to  whom  I  was 
indifferent,  my  being  ugly  and  awkward  was  as  an  iron  wall 
to  me.  No,  no,  I  had  nothing  to  fear  from  love.  My  own 

dear  L ,  only  see  how  much  good  philosophy  you  have 

spoiled.  I  am  not  now  indifferent  to  wealth  or  power  or 
place  in  the  world's  eye.  I  would  fain  be  rich,  that  I  might 
render  you  comfortable ;  powerful,  that  I  might  raise  you 
to  those  high  places  of  society  which  you  are  so  fitted  to 
adorn  ;  celebrated,  that  the  world  might  justify  your  choice. 
I  never  think  now  of  building  the  little  house,  or  of  being 
happiest  in  solitude  ;  and  if  my  life  is  to  be  one  of  celibacy, 
it  must  be  one  of  sorrow  also,  —  of  heart-wasting  sorrow  for 
—  but  I  must  not  think  of  that." 


292  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

One  other  letter  upon  this  subject  we  must  not  omit.  It 
was  addressed  by  Miller  to  Mrs.  Fraser :  — 

"  CROMARTY,  Nov.  2.  1833. 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM  :  —  I  trust  ingratitude  is  not  among 
the  number  of  my  faults.  But  how  render  apparent  the 
sense  I  entertain  of  your  kindness  in  so  warmly  interesting 
yourself  in  my  welfare?  Just  by  laying  my  whole  mind 
open  before  you.  Two  years  ago  there  was  not  a  less 
ambitious  or  more  contented  sort  of  person  than  myself  in 
the  whole  kingdom.  I  knew  happiness  to  be  altogether 
independent  of  external  circumstances  ;  I  more  than  knew 
it,  —  I  felt  it.  My  days  passed  on  in  a  quiet,  even  tenor  ; 
and  though  poor,  and  little  known,  and  bound  down  to  a 
life  of  labor,  I  could  yet  anticipate,  without  one  sad  feeling, 
that  in  all  these  respects  my  future  life  was  to  resemble  the 
past.  Why  should  I  regret  my  poverty?  I  was  inde- 
pendent, in  debt  to  no  one,  and  in  possession  of  all  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  regard  as  the  necessaries  of  life.  Why 
sigh  over  my  obscurity  ?  My  lot  was  that  of  the  thousands 
around  me  ;  and,  besides,  was  I  not  born  to  an  immortality 
too  sublime  to  borrow  any  of  its  grandeur  or  importance 
from  the  mock  immortality  of  fame  ?  Why  repine  because 
my  life  was  to  be  one  of  continual  labor  ?  I  had  acquired 
habits  of  industry,  and  had  learned  from  experience  that,  if 
labor  be  indeed  a  curse,  the  curse  of  indolence  is  by  far  the 
weightier  of  the  two.  .  It  will  not  surprise  you,  my  dear 
madam,  that,  entertaining  such  sentiments,  I  should  have 
used  no  exertions,  and  expressed  no  wish,  to  quit  my  ob- 
scure sphere  of  life  for  a  higher.  Why  should  I?  I  car- 
ried my  happiness  about  with  me,  and  was  independent  of 
every  external  circumstance. 

"  I  shall  not  say  that  I  still  continue  to  think  and  feel 
after  this  manner,  for,  though  quite  the  same  sort  of  man 


LETTER   TO    MRS.    FRASER.  293 

at  present  that  I  was  then,  I  have,  perhaps,  ascertained 
that  my  happiness  does  not  now  centre  so  exclusively  in 
myself.  To  you,  I  dare  say,  I  need  not  be  more  explicit. 
But  though,  in  consequence  of  this  discovery,  I  have  be- 
come somewhat  solicitous,  perhaps,  of  rising  a  step  or  two 
higher  in  the  scale  of  society,  I  find  it  is  one  thing  to  wish 
and  quite  another  to  attempt.  I  find,  too,  that  habits  long 
indulged  inland  formed  under  the  influence  of  sentiments 
such  as  I  describe,  must  militate  so  powerfully  against  me, 
if  that  attempt  be  made,  as  to  leave  little  chance  of  suc- 
cess. My  lack  of  a  classical  education  has  barred  against 
me  all  the  liberal  professions  ;  I  have  no  turn  for  business 
matters ;  and  the  experience  of  about  twelve  years  has 
taught  me  that,  as  an  architect  or  contractor  (professions 
which,  during  at  least  that  space  of  time,  have  been  the 
least  fortunate  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom  of  all  others), 
I  can  indulge  no  rational  hope  of  realizing  y/hat  I  desire. 
There  is  one  little  plan,  however,  which  is  rather  more  a 
favorite  with  me  than  any  of  the  others.  I  think  I  have 
seen  .men  not  much  more  clever  than  myself,  and  pos- 
sessed, of  not  much  greater  command  of  the  pen,  occupy- 
ing respectable  places  in  the  ephemeral  literature  of  the 
day  as  editors  of  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  deriving 
from  their  labors  incomes  of  from  one  to  three  hundred 
pounds  per  annum.  A  very  little  application,  if  I  do  not 
overrate  my  abilities,  natural  and  acquired,  might  fit  me 
for  occupying  a  similar  place,  and,  of  course,  deriving  a 
corresponding  remuneration.  But  how  push  myself  for- 
ward ?  Simply  in  this  manner.  I  have  lately  written,  as  I 
dare  say  you  are  aware,  a  small  traditional  work,  which  I 
have  submitted  to  the  consideration  of  some  of  the  literati 
of  Edinburgh,  and  of  which  they  have  signified  their  ap- 
proval, in  a  st3rle  of  commendation  far  surpassing  my  fond- 
est anticipations.  I  shall  try  and  get  it  published.  If  it 


294  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

succeed  in  attracting  any  general  notice,  I  shall  consider 
my  literary  abilities,  such  as  they  are,  fairly  in  the  market ; 
if  (what  is  more  probable)  it  fail,  I  shall  just  strive  to  for- 
get the  last  two  years  of  my  life,  and  try  whether  I  cannot 
bring  a  very  dear  friend  to  forget  them  too.  God  has  not 
suffered  me  in  the  past  to  be  either  unhappy  myself  or  a 
cause  of  unhappiness  to  those  whom  I  love,  and  I  can 
trust  that  he  will  deal  with  me  after  the  same  fashion  in  the 
future.  I  need  not  say,  my  dear  madam,  that  I  write  in 
confidence,  and  for  your  own  eye  alone.  If  I  fail  in  my 
little  scheme,  I  shall  bear  my  disappointment  all  the  better 
if  it  be  not  known  that  I  built  much  upon  it,  or  looked 
much  beyond  it.  In  such  an  event,  the  pity  of  people  who, 
in  the  main,  are  less  happy  than  myself  (and  the  great  bulk 
of  mankind  are  certainly  not  happier)  shall,  I  trust,  never 
be  solicited  by, 

"  My  dear  madam,"  etc. 


C   Library. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

NEW    OUTLOOK    IN    LIFE DIFFICULTIES     OF     PUBLICATION 

LETTERS   TO    MISS    FRASER. 

HE  quiet  of  intellectual  luxury  and  philosophical 
contentment  broken  up  by  the  agitation  of  a  more 
genially  inspiring  hope ;  the  pride  of  the  stone- 
mason who  has  been  accepted  as  lover  by  a  lady 
forbidding  him  to  place  her  in  any  position  in  which  the 
world  might  fail  to*recognize  her  for  what  she  was,  —  Miller 
now  looked  anxiously  round  him  for  some  means  of  better- 
ing his  social  status.  He  often  thought  of  the  backwoods 
of  America ;  but,  though  the  project  of  emigration  may 
have  had  some  charms  for  his  fancy,  it  never  laid  hold  on 
his  heart.  He  may  have  seen  himself,  with  the  mind's  eye, 
a  brawny  pioneer  of  civilization,  making  clear,  with  stal- 
wart arm  and  glowing  forehead,  a  space  in  the  primeval 
forest,  to  be  occupied  with  field  and  garden  and  homestead, 
and  at  moments  there  may  have  been  fascination  in  the 
view ;  but  his  affections  were  anchored  in  Scotland.  His 
favorite  idea,  therefore,  as  we  saw  in  the  preceding  letter, 
was  that  he  might  undertake  the  editorship  of  a  Scottish 
newspaper.  Some  offer  of  the  kind  reached  him  from  In- 
verness, but  he  did  not  consider  it  eligible.  He  shrank 
from  the  risk  of  depending  for  a  livelihood  upon  promiscu- 
ous contribution  to  periodicals,  and  had  the  shrewdness  to 
be  aware  that,  neither  by  his  poems  nor  by  his  letters  on 
the  herring  fishery,  had  he  attained  celebrity  enough  to 

295 


296  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

command,  for  his  productions,  a  ready  sale  and  a  high 
price  in  the  market  of  current  literature.  His  disposition 
was  at  all  times  the  reverse  of  sanguine,  and  the  largest 
and  most  radiant  possibility  had  a  less  attraction  for  him 
than  a  very  'small  certainty. 

For  the  present,  therefore,  he  determined  to  watch  and 
wait,  concentrating  his  efforts  on  the  improvement  of  his 
prose  style,  and  preparing  a  prose  work  which  might  con- 
clusively scale  for  him  the  heights  of  literary  distinction. 
Soon  after  the  appearance  of  his  poems,  we  find  him  at 
work  on  a  traditional  history  of  his  native  parish,  and,  at 
the  time  when  his  engagement  with  Miss  Fraser  com- 
menced, he  had  composed  enough  to  fill  a  goodly  volume. 
To  remove  its  blemishes,  heighten  its  beauties,  and  procure 
its  publication,  were  for  several  years  his  chief  endeavors. 
Against  publishing  by  subscription  he  had  objections  which 
were,  for  a  long  time,  invincible.  The  stubborn  indepen- 
dence of  his  nature,  the  profound  contempt  with  which  he 
looked  upon  those  mendicant  friars  of  literature  who,  in- 
competent to  succeed  as  mechanics  and  failing  to  sell  their 
manuscripts  to  booksellers,  hawk  subscription-lists  about 
country  districts,  and  make  beggary  more  hideous  by  con- 
ceit and  affectation,  and  the  dainty  exclusiveness  of  his 
appetite  for  fame,  loathing  the  very  idea  of  a  reputation  he 
did  not  owe  to  his  unaided  efforts,  all  combined  to  dissuade 
him  from  this  mode  of  publication. 

Ultimately  he  gave  way  on  the  point,  influenced  by  satis- 
factory reasons  of  which  we  shall  hear ;  but  the  difficulty 
was  evidently  unresolved  at  the  time  when  Miss  Fraser 
addressed  to  him  the  following  note.  Its  precise  date  has 
not  been  preserved,  but  I  take  it  to  have  been  written  in 
1833.  "  You  are  in  difficulty  about  the  printing  of  your 
book,  and  I  might  render  you  some  assistance.  Can  I 
help,  at  least,  satisfying  myself  whether  or  not  it  be  in  my 


AN    OFFER    OF    HELP.  297 

power  ?  I  have  a  little  hoard  of  money  (about  forty  pounds) , 
which  I  may  put  in  trinkets  or  in  the  fire,  and  no  one  know 
airy  thing  of  the  matter.  Will  you  not  let  me  put  it  to  a  nobler 
use?  .  .  .  Dear  Hugh,  do  not  refuse  me';  if  it  will  pain 
you  to  fancy  yourself  indebted  to  me,  make  it  a  loan.  I  shall 
indeed  receive  my  own  with  usury  when  it  shall  have  been 
of  service  to  you."  To  which  the  reply  was  decisive,  and, 
I  have  no  doubt,  prompt.  "  Not  all  that  industry  ever 
accumulated  could  impart  to  me  so  exquisite  a  feeling  as 
your  kind  and  generous  offer.  My  heart  still  throbs  when 
I  think  of  it,  and  yet  during  the  greater  part  of  last  night, 
—  for  I  have  not  slept  for  two  hours  together,  —  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Could  I  avail  myself  of  it,  how- 
ever, I  w^ould  but  ill  deserve  the  affection  which  has 

prompted  it God   bless   and  reward  you  ; 

every  new  trait  I  discover  in  your  character,  while  it  draws 
me  closer  to  you,  shows  me  how  ill  I  deserve  you." 

Miss  Fraser,  with  a  view  to  assisting  her  mother  and 
finding  a  channel  for  her  own  energies,  taught  a  class  of 
young  ladies.  In  the  eyes  of  these,  Hugh  Miller,  whose 
relation  with  their  mistress  they  knew,  was  naturally  a 
person  of  importance,  and  when  they  had  anything  to  coax 
out  of  her  they  thought  it  good  policy  to  apply  to  him. 
Little  children,  sweet-tempered  women,  light-hearted,  laugh- 
ing girls,  —  all  gentle  and  innocent  creatures,  —  loved  and 
trusted  this  man,  and  "  found  their  comfort  in  his  face." 
The  old  Scottish  customs  of  Halloween,  immortalized  by 
Burns,  had  not  yet  become  obsolete  in  Cromarty,  and  Miss 
Fraser's  pupils  were  disposed  to  celebrate  their  Halloween 
in  the  room  usually  devoted  to  study.  Miss  Fraser's  con- 
sent was  required ;  and  one  day,  when  Hugh  was  at  work 
in  the  church-yard,  he  was  "  waited  upon  by  a  deputation  " 
of  the  girls  with  a  request  to  write  a  petition  for  them. 
He  complied. 


298  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

"  To  Miss  Fraser,  the  humble  petition  of  her  attached 
and  grateful  pupils, 

"  Sheweth, 

"  That  your  petitioners  had  great-grandmothers  who  were 
young,  unmarried  women  about  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century.  Like  most  young  women  of  our  own  day,  they 
were  all  exceedingly  anxious  to  know  what  sort  of  hus- 
bands they  were  to  have,  or  whether  they  were  to  have  any 
husbands  at  all.  And,  that  they  might  satisfy  themselves 
on  this  important  matter,  they  burnt  nuts  and  ate  apples 
every  Halloween,  and  with  such  singular  success  that  they 
all  lived  to  see  themselves  married,  —  married,  too,  to  men 
who  had  the  honor  of  being  the  great-grandfathers  of  your 
humble  petitioners. 

"  That  your  petitioners  have,  therefore,  acquired  a  pro- 
found respect  for  the  ancient  and  laudable  practice  of  burn- 
ing nuts  and  eating  apples.  They  are  desirous,  too,  to 
have  a  peep  into  the  future,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  their 
grandmothers,  but  also  for  their  own,  being  not  a  little 
solicitous,  as  every  Halloween  for  the  last  five  years  has 
given  them  a  new  set  of  husbands,  to  ascertain  the  exact 
number  which  is  to  fall  to  the  share  of  each. 

"  That  your  petitioners  deem  Happiness  a  very  excellent 
sort  of  lady,  and  know  many  wiser  women  than  themselves 
who  are  of  the  same  opinion.  There  is  that  in  her  charac- 
ter which  makes  people  regard  even  the  places  in  which  she 
has  visited  them  with  feelings  similar  to  those  which  in- 
cited the  old  Greeks  and  Romans  of  our  story-books  to 
raise  temples  and  altars  on  the  hill-tops  on  which  their  gods 
had  alighted.  Now  it  so  happens  that  your  petitioners  have 
sent  her  a  card  of  invitation  for  next  Halloween,  to  share 
with  them  in  their  nuts  and  apples,  and  she  is  to  be  with 
them  without  fail.  And  they  would  fain  meet  with  her  on 
this  occasion  in  that  apartment  in  which  their  dear  mistress 


A    PETITION.  299 

has  done  so  much  to  render  them  wiser  and  better.  For  so 
sincerely  do  they  love  it  that  they  are  desirous  of  loving  it 
more,  and  this  by  rendering  it  a  scene  of  splendid  hopes, 
rich  promises,  and  good  fun,  —  by  associating  with  it  recol- 
lections not  of  long  lessons  or  false  grammar,  but  of  fine 
husbands,  gilt  coaches,  nuts,  gingerbread,  and  apples. 

••  31  ay  it  therefore  please  you  to  grant  to  your  humble 
petitioners  full  possession,  during  the  coming  night  of  fun 
and  prediction,  of  that  interesting  apartment  in  which  you 
have  so  often  imparted  to  your  petitioners  more  of  good 
than  they  have  been  all  fully  able  to  carry  away.  Afl 
have  already  so  liberally  given  to  them  of  the  kernel,  may 
it  now  please  you  to  add  the  shell.  And  your  attached  and 
grateful  petitioners  shall  in  return  sacrifice  an  entire  egg  to 
your  happiness  and  prosperity." 

The  petition  was  successful. 

One  thing  is  clear :  Hugh  Miller's  existence  at  this  time 
right  and  cheerful.  At  peace  with  himself,  and,  if  we 
except  a  fierce  Cromarty  Radical  or  two,  with  all  the  world ; 
exempt  from  every  care  which  gnaws  the  human  heart ; 
happy  in  friendship,  happy  in  love ;  hope  and  ambition 
touching  his  horizon  with  bright  auroral  hues,  but  not  in- 
flaming him  with  any  feverish  heat,  —  he  was  indeed  most 
fortunate.  For  events,  there  were  occasional  trips  to  Inver- 
nshing  excursions  to  the  rocks,  exploring  rambles  on 
the  shore,  picnics  to  the  Burn  of  Eathie.  All  the  time,  he 
was  pursuing  his  enterprise  of  self-culture  with  the  steady 
enthusiasm  of  a  Goethe.  He  never  wrote  a  letter  or  penned 
a  paragraph  for  the  u  Inverness  Courier  "  without  striving 
to  make  it  a  means  of  improving  himself  in  composition. 
He  grudged  no  toil  in  writing  and  re-writing  his  Traditions, 
resolutely  bent  upon  bringing  them,  in  style,  thought,  and 
interest,  to  his  high  standard. 

It  need  not  seriously  qualify  our  estimate  of  his  felicity 


300  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

to  know  that  the  business  of  getting  his  volume  into  print 
proved  for  him,  as  it  has  proved  for  so  many  authors,  a 
business  of  difficulty.  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder  —  known 
to  literature  by  his  novel,  "  The  Wolf  of  Badenoch,"  and  to 
science  by  his  account  of  the  great  Morayshire  floods  and 
dissertation  on  the  parallel  roads  of  Glen  Roy  —  had 
formed  a  high  opinion  of  the  Cromarty  poet's  capacity,  and 
exerted  himself  to  procure  the  publication  of  his  book.  Sir 
Thomas  submitted  the  manuscript  to  an  Edinburgh  critic, 
an  expert,  it  appears,  in  the  tasting  department  of  the  lit- 
erary guild,  whom  he  describes  as  "  one  of  the  first  literary 
judges  of  the  day."  The  response  was  more  flattering  than 
satisfactory.  "  I  do  not,"  wrote  this  minister  of  fate,  "  pre- 
tend to  have  read  the  whole  with  much  care ;  but  I  have 
read  quite  enough  to  impress  me  with  a  decided  opinion  of 
his  [Miller's]  very  extraordinary  powers  as  a  prose  writer." 
There  is,  however,  an  objection  to  the  history,  to  wit,  "  its 
great  lengthiness  ;  "  and  though  the  great  man  repeats  his 
conviction  that  Mr.  Miller  is  "  a  very  extraordinary  person," 
he  does  not  say  that  he  will  recommend  any  of  the  purvey- 
ors of  literary  viands  whom  he  professionally  advises  to 
place  it  on  their  bill  of  fare.  Messrs.  Oliver  and  Boyd  and 
Mr.  Andrew  Shortrede,  to  whom  respectively  the  volume  is 
offered,  are  almost  equally  complimentary  and  equally  tan- 
talizing. Mr.  Miller's  manner  of  treating  his  subject  u  does 
him  great  credit."  It  is  difficult  to  say  what  will  succeed, 
but  u  as  easy  as  ever  to  say  what  ought  to  succeed,  and 
under  this  class  no  one  can  hesitate  to  rank  the  Traditional 
History  of  Cromarty."  But  "  the  work  would  require  con- 
siderable pruning  to  suit  the  public  taste,"  and,  on  the 
whole,  "  we  regret  that  we  cannot  avail  ourselves  of  your 
kind  offer."  Mr.  Shortrede  would  "  risk  the  printing,"  if 
any  one  would  "  venture  the  other  expenses  ;  "  but  farther 
than  this  not  even  Mr.  Shortrede,  though  he  evidently 


HIS    "  TRADITIONS."  301 

hankers  after  the  thing,  will  go.  He  proposes  to  forward 
the  MS.  to  his  London  correspondent,  "  to  ascertain  his 
opinion  "  before  returning  it.  Sir  Thomas,  who  felt  that  he 
"  had  no  chance  with  Black,  Cadell,"  or  other  publishers, 
apprised  Miller  of  his  want  of  success,  trying  to  put  the 
discouraging  tale  as  tenderly  as  possible.  "  The  difficulty," 
he  said,  "  of  getting  out  a  literary  work  at  present  is  im- 
mense. I  have  never  been  able  to  get  my  first  volume  of 
Legends  launched,  and  I  now  begin  'to  despair  of  doing  so." 
In  short,  our  aspiring  Ixion  cannot  have  the  real  Juno,  but 
here  is  a  cloud,  as  like  her  in  form  and  color  as  a  cloud  can 
possibly  be,  and  he  is  most  civilly  invited  to  derive  what 
satisfaction  he  can  from  embracing  it. 

Sir  Thomas'  note  is  dated  14th  October,  1833  ;  Miller 
replies  on  the  18th  of  the  same  month.  He  is  disposed  to 
make  as  much  of  the  cloud  as  is  feasible,  but  sees  well  that 
it  is  a  cloud  after  all. 

"  HONORED  SIR  :  —  I  little  thought,  when  writing  you 
last  spring,  of  the  world  of  trouble  to  which  my  request 
and  your  own  goodness  were  to  subject  you ;  had  I  but 
dreamed  of  it  I  would  not  now,  perhaps,  be  possessed  of 
your  truly  valuable  opinion  of  my  MS.,  —  an  opinion  which 
has  given  me  more  pleasure  than  I  dare  venture  fully  to 
express.  I  set  myself  down  in  my  obscure  solitudes  to 
seek  amusement  in  making  rude  pictures  of  my  homely 
ancestors  and  the  scenes  of  humble  life  by  which  I  am  sur- 
rounded, and  find  that  my  careless  sketches  have  elicited 
the  praise  of  a  master. 

"In  a  work  composed  as  mine  has  been  and  on  such  a 
subject,  by  a  person,  too,  so  acquainted  with  the  taste  of  the 
public  and  the  present  aspect  of  the  literary  world,  what 
wonder  that  there  should  be  a  good  deal  which  would  be 
perhaps  better  away?  The  circumstances  which  have 


302  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

barred  upon  me  those  magazines  of  thought  which  consti- 
tute the  learning  of  the  age  have  prevented  me  from 
acquiring  its  manners  or  becoming  familiar  with  its  tastes. 
And  yet,  as  it  was  probably  these  very  circumstances  which 
led  me  to  think  on  most  subjects  for  myself,  I  must  just 
bear  with  the  misfortune  of  being  uncouth  and  tedious  in 
some  of  my  pages  for  the  sake  of  being  a  little  original  in 
the  rest.  .  .  .  Some  of  my  dissertations,  too,  are,  I 
suspect,  sad,  leaden  things,  though  they  amused  me  not  a 
little  in  the  casting ;  and  some  of  my  minor  traditions, 
though  recommended  to  me  by  my  townsfolks,  are,  I  am 
aware,  like  reptiles  in  a  bottle  of  spirits,  hardly  worth  the 
liquid  which  preserves  them.  .  .  .  Some  of  my  acquaint- 
ance here,  who  seem  much  more  anxious  to  see  my  history 
in  print  than  I  am  myself,  are  urging  me  to  publish  by  sub- 
scription ;  and  this  they  assure  me  I  could  accomplish 
through  the  medium  of  my  friends  without  the  meanness  of 
personal  solicitation,  or,  indeed,  without  meanness  of  any 
kind  ;  but  I  am  still  averse  to  the  method,  and  at  any  rate 
will  not  determine  with  regard  to  it  until  my  MS.  has  been 
submitted  to  Mr.  Shortrede's  correspondent.  Even  should 
his  opinion  be  an  unfavorable  one,  and  the  dernier  scheme 
prove  unfavorable  too,  still  my  fate  as  a  writer  shall  not,  I 
trust,  be  decided  by  that  of  my  Traditions.  The  same  cast 
of  mind  which  has  enabled  me  to  overcome  not  a  few  of  the 
obstacles  which  my  place  in  society  and  an  imperfect  educa- 
tion have  conspired  to  cast  in  my  way,  and  this,  too,  at  a 
time  when  the  approval  of  such  men  as  the  gentleman 
whom  I  have  now  the  honor  of  addressing  was  a  meed 
beyond  the  reach  of  even  my  fondest  anticipations,  shall,  I 
trust,  enable  me  to  persist  in  improving  to  the  utmost  the 
powers  which  I  naturally  possess.  And  should  I  fail  at 
last,  it  will  assuredly  be  less  my  fault  than  my  misfortune. 
"  I  am  wholly  unable  to  express  the  sense  I  entertain  of 


HIS  "TRADITIONS."  303 

your  goodness,  but  believe,  honored  sir,  that  I  can  feel  and 
appreciate  it.  My  days  are  passing  quietly  and  not  unhap- 
pily among  friends  to  whom  I  am  sincerely  attached,  and 
by  whom  I  know  myself  to  be  regarded  with  a  similar  feel- 
ing ;  and  though  that  depression  which  affects  the  trade  of 
the  whole  country  bears  so  low  that  it  has  reached  even  me, 
I  can  live  on  the  little  which  I  earn,  and  am  content.  Still, 
however,  I  indulge  in  hopes  and  expectations  which  I  would 
ill  like  to  forego,  —  hopes  perhaps  of  being  somewhat  less 
obscure,  and  somewhat  abler  to  assist  such  of  my  relatives 
as  are  poorer  than  even  myself;  but  the  future  belongs  to 
God.  Winter,  my  season  of  leisure,  is  fast  approaching, 
and  should  I  live  to  see  its  close  I  shall  probably  find  my- 
self ten  or  twelve  chapters  deep  in  the  second  volume  of 
my  Traditions,  maugre  the  untoward  destinies  of  the  first." 

The  reference  to  Mr.  Shortrede's  London  correspondent 
was  unavailing.  Nothing  remained  but  to  fall  back  upon 
the  scheme  of  publication  by  subscription.  "  I  stated,"  he 
writes  to  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder,  in  June,  1834,  "  when  I 
had  last  the  honor  of  addressing  you,  that  some  of  my 
townspeople  and  acquaintance  seemed  to  be  more  anxious 
to  see  my  history  in  print  than  I  was  myself,  and  that  they 
were  urging  me  to  publish  it  by  subscription.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  be  persuaded  to  what  one  half-inclines ;  my 
chief  objection  to  the  scheme  arose  out  of  a  dread  of  sub- 
jecting myself  to  a  charge  of  meanness  by  teasing  the 
public  into  an  unfair  bargain,  —  giving  it  a  bad  book,  and 
pocketing  money  not  counterfeit  in  return.  But  I  am 
assured  that  the  book  is  not  bad,  and  that  there  would 
therefore  be  nothing  mean  or  unfair  in  the  transaction  ;  and 
the  partiality  for  one's  own  performances,  so  natural  to  the 
poor  author,  has  rendered  the  argument  a  convincing  one. 
I  publish,  therefore,  by  subscription,  so  soon  as  three  hun- 


304  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

dred  subscribers  at  eight  shillings  can  be  procured.  Pecu- 
niary advantage  forms  no  part  of  my  scheme  ;  and,  though 
not  very  sanguine,  I  trust  I  shall  succeed.  ...  If  ever 
my  Traditions  get  abroad  I  find  they  will  be  all  the  better 
for  having  stayed  so  long  at  home.  Since  sending  you  my 
MS.  I  have  thought  of  alterations  which  will  materially 
improve  some  of  the  chapters." 

The  subscription  scheme  was  attended  with  complete 
success.  Miller's  townsmen  and  friends  exerted  themselves 
strenuously  in  his  behalf,  and  in  due  time  his  book  saw  the 
light.  But  we  must  not  anticipate. 

His  correspondence,  while  these  negotiations  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  volume  were  in  progress,  had  been  copious,  and 
some  portion  of  it  must  be  laid  before  the  reader.  No 
further  introduction  is  required  to  the  following  selection 
from  his  letters  of  the  period  addressed  to  Miss  Fraser. 
Whenever  Miller  left  Cromarty,  whether  for  Inverness  or 
elsewhere,  he  commenced  writing  to  Miss  Fraser,  and  seems 
to  have  carried  a  pen  and  ink-horn  along  with  him,  so  that 
he  might  put  his  impressions  into  black  and  white  for  con- 
veyance to  his  mistress  at  every  resting-place  on  the  way. 

"INVERNESS,  10  o'clock  at  night. 

"  Your  criticisms,  my  Lydia,  came  rather  late  ;  but  when 
I  receive  my  proof-sheets  I  shall  bring  them  to  you  that  we 
may  talk  over  them.  You  are  a  skilful  grammarian,  but  in 
some  points  we  shall  differ,  —  you  know  we  can  differ,  and 
yet  be  very  excellent  friends.  I  might  try  long  enough  ere 
I  could  find  a  mistress  so  fitted  to  be  useful  to  me,  —  so 
little  of  a  blue-stocking,  and  yet  so  knowing  in  composition. 
I  am  glad  you  are  better,  and  that  you  slept  so  well  last 
night,  even  though  your  slumber  abridged  your  letter.  I 
saw  you  to-day  as  I  passed  your  mother's.  You  were 
standing  in  the  door  with  a  lady,  and  looked,  I  thought, 


LETTERS  TO  MISS  FRASER.  305 

very  pale.  O  my  own  Lydia,  be  careful  of  yourself !  Take 
little  thought  and  much  exercise.  Read  for  amusement 
only.  Set  yourself  to  make  a  collection  of  shells,  or  butter- 
flies, or  plants.  Do  anything  that  will  have  interest  enough 
to  amuse  you  without  requiring  so  much  attention  as  to 
fatigue.  I  was  sadly  annoyed  in  the  steamboat  to-night 

by  a  sort  of  preaching  man,  —  one  M ,  a  Baptist.     He 

has  little  sense  and  no  manners,  and  his  religion  seems  to 
consist  in  finding  fault.  Of  all  nonsense,  my  Lydia,  relig- 
ious nonsense  is  the  worst ;  of  all  uncharitableness,  that  of 
the  sectary  is  the  bitterest.  We  too  often  speak  of  intoler- 
ance as  peculiar  to  classes  who  chance  to  have  the  power  of 
exercising  it,  —  as  inseparably  connected  with  Church  estab- 
lishments and  a  beneficed  clergy  ;  but  it  is  not  with  circum- 
stances or  situations  that  it  is  connected  ;  it  is  with  inferior 
natures,  —  it  is  with  bad  men.  The  proud,  heart-swollen 
Churchman  who  condemns  heretics  to  the  flames  of  this 
world,  and  the  rancorous  heresiarch,  his  opponent,  who  can 
only  threaten  them  with  the  flames  of  the  next,  possess  it  in 
an  equal  degree.  Nay,  it  may  rage  in  the  breast  of  the 
Dissenter  and  find  no  place  in  that  of  the  Churchman.  I 

saw  as  much  of  it  in  M to-night  (and  yet  no  man  could 

denounce  it  more  earnestly)  as  might  serve  a  Grand  Inquisi- 
tor. I  had  no  dispute  with  him,  as  I  saw  it  would  be  an 
easier  task  to  find  him  argument  than  comprehension ; 
besides,  I  wished  to  see  the  fellow,  horns  and  all ;  and  had 
I  touched  him  he  might  have  drawn  in  the  latter.  Good- 
night, my  Lydia ;  these  are  commonplace  remarks,  but 
they  have  an  important  bearing  on  the  present  time.  A 
persecuting,  intolerant  spirit  directed  against  our  national 
Church  animates  the  great  body  of  our  Dissenters,  and 
there  cannot  be  a  fairer  specimen  of  the  more  active  of  the 

class  than  M .     Good-night :  fine  thing  to  be  able  to 

write  to  one's  friends." 


806  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"  INVERNESS,  Thursday  morning. 

"  I  have  been  walking  about  the  streets  for  an  hour, 
looking  at  people's  heads  and  faces,  and  at  the  booksellers' 
windows.  I  wish  I  knew  the  house  you  were  born  in ;  I 
would  pay  my  respects  to  it  with  a  great  deal  more  devo- 
tional sincerity  than  some  pilgrims  feel  when  kneeling  be- 
fore the  Virgin's  house  at  Loretto.  I  have  been  walking  in 
the  suburbs ;  it  is  still  too  early  to  call  on  any  of  my 
acquaintance.  You  little  know,  my  lassie,  how  covetous  I 
have  become.  I  have  hardly  in  the  course  of  my  walk  seen 
a  snug  little  house  with  woodbine  on  the  walls  and  a  garden 
in  front,  without  half  ejaculating,  '  Here  with  my  Lydia,  and 
with  a  very  little  of  that  wealth  which  thousands  know  not 
how  to  employ,  I  could  be  happy.'  Well,  though  not  born 
to  ricjies,  I  have  been  born  to  what  riches  cannot  purchase, 
—  to  the  possession  of  an  expansive  heart  that  can  be  sin- 
cerely attached,  and  happy  in  its  attachment,  and  to  the 
love,  the  pure,  disinterested,  unselfish  love  of  a  talented 
and  lovely  woman." 

"  DRYNIE  FARM,  Friday  morning. 

"  After  leaving  Mr.  Sutor,  I  called  at  the  6  Courier '  office. 
Mr.  Carruthers  himself  had  not  yet  come  in,  and  in  the 
interim  I  took  a  stroll  with  the  head  printer  of  the  estab- 
lishment, to  the  building  now  erecting  on  the  Castle  Hill, 
where  I  saw  more  than  twenty  masons,  but  knew  only  two 
of  the  squad.  Ten  years,  and  so  long  is  it  since  I  wrought 
at  any  public  work,  have  well-nigh  worn  out  my  acquaint- 
ance with  my  brethren  of  the  mallet ;  but  many  of  them  in 
this  part  of  the  country  who  do  not  know  me  personally 
have  a  kind  of  favor  for  me  as  one  who  does  them  no  dis- 
credit ;  and  I  saw  some  of  them  whom  I  had  been  pointed 
out  to  (do  smile  at  my  vanity !)  looking  at  me  with  some- 
thing like  complacency.  Masons  are  in  general  rough- 


IN    INVERNESS.  307 

looking  fellows,  and  their  occupation  is  dusty  and  toilsome, 
but  I  know  not  a  manlier  or  a  better  suited  to  exemplify 
Bacon's  remark  on  laborious  as  opposed  to  sedentary  em- 
ployments. 

"  On  my  return  I  saw  Mr.  Carruthers.  He  was  very 
kind,  and  showed  me  his  library,  and  kindly  offered  me  the 
loan  of  any  of  his  books.  I  saw  with  him  a  fine  —  shall  I  say 
affecting  ?  —  print  of  Cowper.  It  bore  in  the  fixed  lines  of  the 
face  the  marks  of  a  vigorous  intellect  and  a  fine,  playful 
wit,  but,  oh,  the  expression  of  withering  blight  and  hopeless 
despondency  that  rested  on  the  features  !  There  was  sad- 
ness in  the  beautiful  eye  and  on  the  expansive  forehead,  —  a 
sadness  which  the  voice  of  friendship  or  of  fame,  or  the 
bright  rays  of  genius,  vainly  strove  to  dissipate ;  and  the 
meek  firmness  of  the  lips  was  a  firmness  which  seemed  to 
contend  with  agony.  I  could  almost  cry  as  I  contemplated 
it." 

"  GRAY  CAIRN,  half-past  3  o'clock. 

"  Here,  my  own  Lydia,  have  I  sitten  down  to  write  you 
after  a  rather  smart  walk  of  about  eleven  miles ;  and  my 
first  thought  is  of  you.  Have  you  ever  visited  the  gray 
cairn,  or  surveyed  the  bleak  barren  moor  that  spreads 
around  it  ?  It  towers  high  and  shapeless  around  me,  gray 
with  the  moss  and  lichens  of  forgotten  ages,  —  a  mound 
striding  across  the  stream  of  centuries,  to  connect  the  past 
with  the  present,  —  a  voucher  to  attest  the  truth  of  events 
long  forgotten,  —  a  memorial  carved  over  by  the  fingers  of 
fancy  with  a  wild,  imaginative  poetry.  How  very  poetical 
savage  life  appears  when  viewed  through  the  dim  vista  of 
time !  The  savages  of  the  present  day  we  regard  as  a 
squalid,  lazy,  cruel  race  of  animals,  —  disgusting  mixtures 
of  the  wolf,  the  fox,  and  the  hog,  who  live,  and  love,  and 
fight,  not  with  the  wisdom,  gallantry,  courage  of  men,  but 
with  the  craft,  the  brutality,  the  ferocity  of  wild  beasts. 


308  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

Not  such  the  sentiment  when  we  look  through  the  clouded 
avenue  of  the  past  on  the  deeds  and  habits  of  our  painted 
ancestors.  The  poetical  haze  of  the  atmosphere  magnifies 
the  size  of  the  figures,  smooths  down  their  various  hard- 
nesses of  outlines,  and  softens  and  improves  their  colors. 
On  the  wild  moor  before  me  have  some  of  them  fought  and 
died  in  some  nameless  but  hard-contested  and  bloody  con- 
flict, —  nameless  now,  though  long  celebrated  among  their 
descendants,  and  often  sung  at  their  rude  hunting-feasts 
and  war  banquets.  See  how  we  are  surrounded  by  vestiges 
of  the  fray  !  Observe  yonder  rectangular,  altar-like  tumu- 
lus, —  the  scene,  it  is  probable,  of  human  sacrifice  ;  —  mark 
how  thickly  those  grave-like  mounds  are  scattered  over  the 
.moor,  and  how  regularly  they  run  in  lines.  And  then  turn 
to  the  cairn  behind,  —  the  monument  of  some  fallen  chief. 
Give  yourself  up  for  a  moment,  my  Lyclia,  to  the  sway  of 
imagination.  The  moor  is  busy  with  life,  the  air  rent  with 
clamor.  Do  you  not  see  waving  arms  and  threatening 
faces,  the  glittering  of  spears,  the  flashing  of  swords,  eyes 
flaring,  wounds  streaming,  warriors  falling?  See,  the  com- 
batants are  now  wedged  into  dense  masses,  now  broken 
into  detached  bands ;  now  they  press  onward,  now  they 
recede ;  now  they  open  their  ranks,  now  they  close  in  a 
death-grapple.  There  are  the  yells  of  pain,  the  roarings  of 
rage,  and  the  shouts  of  exultation.  Passion  is  busy,  and 
so  is  death.  But  the  figures  recede  and  the  sounds  die 
away,  till  we  see  only  a  wide,  solitary  moor,  with  its 
mounds  and  its  tumuli,  and  hear  only  the  wind  rustling 
through  the  heath." 

"  CROMARTT,  half-past  6  o'clock. 

"  Here  am  I  once  more  in  my  little  room.  Mother  is 
preparing  tea  for  me  ;  and  I  have  just  given,  as  is  my  wont 
after  returning  from  a  journey,  half  pennies  apiece  to  the 


LETTERS  TO  MISS  ERASER.  309 

children  and  to  Angus,  the  idiot  boy,  who  has  been  sadly 
annoyed  at  my  absence.  The  degree  of  fatigue  incurred  by 
walking  nearly  eighteen  miles  in  a  warm  day  has  in  some 
slight  degree  blunted  the  edge  of  my  mind,  but  it  has 
spared  my  affections,  —  I  can  love  as  warmly  as  ever. 
Dear  me,  here  is  Bell,  —  I  am  to  see  you  and  to  get  tea 
from  you  to  boot." 

"  Thank  you,  my  own  kind  lassie,  for  your  long  and  ex- 
cellent letter.  I  wish  you  but  knew  how  much  I  enjoyed  it 
on  the  first  perusal  and  admired  it  on  the  second.  But,  my 
own  dearest  Lydia,  am  I  not  tasking  you  overmuch  ?  .  . 
.  .  Do  not  be  so  careless  of  yourself.  You  are  already 
much  too  pale  and  thin,  my  Lydia ;  do  not  become  paler 
and  thinner  over  the  midnight  oil.  Your  mind  and  body 
are  not,  I  am  afraid,  very  equally  matched ;  the  energies 
of  the  one  wear  out  the  powers  of  the  other.  Be  gener- 
ous, my  lassie,  and  take  part  with  the  weaker  side.  Write 
me  not  continuously,  but  just  a  few  lines  now  and  then 
when  you  chance  to  be  in  the  mood  ;  —  now  at  the  grassy 
side  of  the  Leap  —  now  beside  the  beechen  tree ;  and 
that  I  may  be  able  to  take  your  portrait  at  each  sitting  and 
to  revert  to  the  time  of  it,  state  over  each  paragraph  the 
localities  and  the  hour.  But  if  I  continue  to  lecture  you  in 
this  way  you  will  care  little  for  either  writing  me  or  hear- 
ing from  me. 

"  Tell  me,  my  Lydia,  why  is  it  that  I  fear  so  much  more 
for  you  than  for  myself?  I  hold  life  by  quite  as  uncertain 
a  tenure  ;  and  I  do  not  know  —  for  my  constitution  is  by 
no  means  a  strong  one  —  if  I  be  a  great  deal  less  subject  to 
indisposition.  But  somehow  sickness  and  death  do  not  ap- 
pear half  so  terrible  to  me  when  in  looking  forward  I  see 
them  watching  beside  my  own  path,  as  when  I  see  them 
lurking  beside  yours.  Do  I  love  you  better  than  I  do  my- 
self? or  does  the  feeling  arise  out  of  one's  confidence  in 


310  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

one's  own  ability  to  resist  or  endure,  which  Young  de- 
scribes as  making  c  men  deem  all  men  mortal  but  them- 
selves '?...!  remember  that  when  on  my  rock  ex- 
cursions with  parties  of  my  school-fellows  I  used  to  leap 
from  crag  to  crag  with  the  agility  of  the  chamois,  as  cool 
and  unconcerned  when  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  as  when 
on  the  level  shore.  If,  however,  I  saw  any  of  my  compan- 
ions in  places  of  danger,  I  felt  miserable.  I  had  full  con- 
fidence in  myself,  but  so  little  in  them,  that  at  every  step 
they  took  I  expected  to  see  them  topple  down  headlong. 
It  has  been  said,  my  own  Lydia,  that  a  philosopher  in  pet- 
ticoats is  a  loveless  thing ;  when  I  converse  with  you  in 
this  fashion,  it  is  in  the  full  conviction  that  few  females' 
minds  have  been  cast  in  a  more  philosophical  mould  than 
yours ;  but  surely  there  is  little  truth  in  the  remark,  for 
never  yet  was  there  woman  more  warmly  or  more  tenderly 
beloved." 

u  You  and  I,  my  Lydia,  must  converse  some  time  or 
other  on  the  unlucky  subject  of  Friday  night ;  —  not  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  —  there  are  many  subjects  for  us  to  exer- 
cise our  wits  upon  without  meddling  with  religion,  —  but 
that  we  may  arrive  at  the  truth.  I  was  sorry  to  perceive 
that  you  were  seriously  displeased ;  and  that  in  conse- 
quence of  a  rather  unskilful  statement  of  doctrine  on  your 
part,  which  was,  I  dare  say,  occasioned  by  the  use  of  lan- 
guage rather  bold  than  correct  on  mine,  Mrs. was 

led  to  deem  your  opinion  heretical.     I  am  confident  that  in  . 

reality  we  are  at  one  on  this  subject.     Neither  Mrs. 

nor  I  ever  doubted  for  a  moment  that  we  ought  to  make 
Christ  our  pattern  and  example  ;  for  who  can  doubt  *,hat 
his  whole  life  was  just  the  entire  law  of  his  Father  reduced 
to  practice ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  the  law  is  the 
rule  which'  God  has  revealed  for  our  obedience  ?  On  the 


HIMSELF  AND    WILSON.  .311 

other,  neither  Mrs. ,  nor  you,  nor  I  can  doubt  that  the 

injunction  '  Do  this  and  live/  whether  applied  to  the  law  as 
embodied  in  written  commands  or  as  exemplified  in  the  life 
of  Christ,  is  the  now  impossible  condition  of  the  old  cove- 
nant, not  the  glorious  watchword  of  the  new ;  and  that 
under  this  better  covenant  the  ability  of  imitating  Christ  is 
a  grace  bestowed,  not  a  condition  exacted.  All  this,  my 
Lydia,  might  have  been  said  and  agreed  to  without  any 
angry  feeling  or  personal  remark  ;  but  we  are  so  weak  and 
foolish,  my  lassie,  that  we  cannot  so  much  as  contend  for 
the  necessity  of  imitating  Christ  without  showing  by  some- 
thing more  conclusive  than  argument  how  impossible  it  is 
for  us  to  imitate  him  aright.  Perhaps  in  some  of  our  soli- 
tary interviews  we  may  derive  something  better  than 
amusement  from  talking  over  the  subject,  and  something 
more  than  ordinary  satisfaction  in  finding  that  in  the  more 
important  of  our  beliefs  we  cordially  agree.  However  di- 
verse in  our  tastes,  however  different  in  our  opinions,  how- 
ever dissimilar  in  our  philosophy,  let  us  at  least  desire,  my 
own  dearest  Lydia,  to  be  at  one  in  our  religion.  What- 
ever befalls  us  in  the  future,  —  whether  from  the  edge  of 
some  solitary  forest  of  the  West  our  prayers  shall  ascend  for 
assistance  and  protection,  or  whether  in  some  happy  dwell- 
ing of  our  own  land  they  shall  rise  in  gratitude  to  Him  the 
benefactor,  would  it  not  be  well  for  us,  my  dearest,  that 
they  should  rise  together  addressed  to  the  same  God 
through  the  same  Mediator,  and  in  quite  the  same  way ; 
that  each  should  be  employed  in  seconding  the  requests  of 
the  other,  not  in  internally  lodging  a  protest  against  them  ? 
"  Sir  Thomas  has  sent  me  my  manuscript,  accompanied 
by  a  brief  and  exceedingly  hurried  note  from  Professor 
Wilson,  in  which  he  promises  to  write  him  a  letter  on  the 
subject  in  a  few  days.  I  must  say,  I  expect  very  little 
from  the  Professor.  I  question  whether  he  has  read  my 


312  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

* 

first  chapter.  Besides,  our  style  and  manner  of  thinking 
are  so  very  unlike,  that  I  do  not  well  see  how  he  can  ap- 
prove of  my  writings  without  passing  a  sort  of  tacit  cen- 
sure on  his  own.  He  is  one  of  the  most  diffuse  writers  of 
the  day ;  I  am  concise.  His  thoughts  are  detached  ;  mine 
are  consecutive.  His  descriptions,  gorgeous  with  color  and 
exquisite  in  form,  delight  only  the  sight ;  mine,  though  less 
splendid,  appeal  to  the  sentiments.  His  narratives  are 
hung  over  with  splendid  draperies ;  mine  are  naked.  He 
rarely  reasons  on  the  nature  of  man ;  I  often.  He  is  a 
Tory ;  I  a  Whig.  What  can  I  expect  from  such  a  critic  ?  " 

"  SCHOOL-HOUSE  OF  NIGG,  Monday  Evening. 
"  Here  am  I  set  in  Mr.  Swanson's  sleeping-room  beside  a 
not  bad  collection  of  books.  I  find  I  am  not  nearly  so 
great  a  literary  glutton  now  as  I  was  fifteen  years  ago ; 
there  was  a  keenness  in  my  appetite  at  that  time  which  I 
have  hardly  ever  seen  equalled.  The  very  heaven  of  my 
imagination  was  an  immense  library ;  and  my  fondest  de- 
sires asked  nothing  more  from  the  future  than  much  time 
and  many  books.  Have  you  marked  the  progress  of  your 
mind  from  the  days  in  which  you  dressed  your  doll,  to  the 
days  in  which  you  are  addressed  by  your  lover  ?  I  remem- 
ber that  from  my  fourth  to  my  sixth  year  I  derived  much 
pleasure  from  oral  narrative,  and  that  my  imagination, 
even  at  this  early  period,  had  acquired  strength  enough  to 
present  me  with  vividly  colored  pictures  of  all  the  scenes 
described  to  me,  and  of  all  the  incidents  related.  My 
mind  then  opened  to  the  world  of  books.  I  began  to  un- 
derstand the  stories  of  the  Bible,  and  to  steal  into  some 
quiet  corner,  that  I  might  peruse  tales  and  novels  unmo- 
lested by  my  companions.  In  my  twelfth  year  I  could 
relish  a  volume  of  the  4  Spectator '  and  some  of  the  better 
essays  of  Johnson ;  in  my  fifteenth  I  was  delighted  with 


HIS   MENTAL   HISTORY.  313 

the  writings  of  the  poets.  About  a  year  after  I  found  that 
'twas  better  to  be  solitary  than  in  company  ;  my  mind  had 
acquired  strength  enough,  as  nurses  say  of  their  children, 
to  stand  alone ;  and  a  first  consequence  of  the  improve- 
ment was  that  I  exchanged  my  many  companions  for  a  few 
friends.  I  became  a  thorough  admirer  of  nature  for  its 
own  sake  ;  before,  I  had  only  affected  to  love  it  from  find- 
ing so  much  written  in  its  praise.  I  was  first  delighted  by 
the  mild,  the  calm,  the  beautiful,  next  by  the  wild,  the  ter- 
rible, the  sublime.  Years  passed  on,  and  man  became  my 
study.  I  delighted  in  tracing  the  progress  of  the  species, 
from  the  extreme  of  barbarism  to  that  of  refinement,  and 
in  marking  the  various  shades  of  intellectual  character. 
Studies  of  a  more  abstract  class  succeeded,  and  I  became  a 
metaphysician.  I  strove  to  penetrate  into  the  first  causes 
and  to  anticipate  the  remoter  consequences  of  things ; 
and  reasoned  on  subjects  such  as  those  which  employed  the 
fiends  in  Milton  when  they  '  found  no  end  in  wandering 
mazes  lost ; '  but  I  soon  perceived  that  the  over-subtle 
thinker  reaps  only  a  harvest  of  doubt,  and  that,  when 
truth  is  our  object,  it  is  quite  as  possible  to  miss  the  mark 
by  overshooting  as  by  falling  short.  In  the  progress  re- 
lated, and  I  cannot  trace  it  further,  habits  have  been  suc- 
cessively formed  and  relinquished,  and  appetites  acquired 
and  satiated.  But,  though  many  of  these  have  long  since 
ceased,  much  of  that  which  they  accumulated  for  me  still 
remains, — wrought  up  in  some  degree  into  one  entire  mass, 
but  in  some  degree  also  bearing  in  their  separate  portions 
the  color  and  stamp  of  the  period  at  which  they  were  ac- 
quired. I  find,  too,  that  as  in  the  progress  of  my  mind 
(to  use  your  own  happy  language)  '  what  were  at  one  time 
the  subjects  of  thought  and  reason  to  me  have  become  first 
principles/  so  habits  and  modes  of  thinking  which  have 
been  formed  under  the  influence  of  our  second  nature  — 


314  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

custom — have  become  to  me  what  seem  primary  tenden- 
cies of  the  mind  ;  and  that  if  there  be  much  of  originality 
in  my  thoughts,  I,  perhaps,  owe  it  in  nearly  as  great  a  de- 
gree to  the  peculiarity  of  my  education  as  to  any  innate 
vigor  of  faculty.  But  you  will  deem  me  dull  and  an 
egotist." 

"ROADSIDE,  Tuesday,  11  o'clock. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  Chapel-Hill ;  the  day  is  so  oppres- 
sively hot  that  the  grass  and  corn  look  as  if  half  boiled, 
and  there  is  a  dense  cloud  of  flies  buzzing  about  my  head. 
I  saw,  two  minutes  since,  a  large  weasel  quitting  its  hole  to 
drink.  My  eyes  are  so  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  the  sun  on 
the  white  of  your  letter,  which  I  have  been  again  perusing, 
that  I  hardly  see  the  characters  I  am  forming.  You  have 
embodied  very  happily,  in  your  description,  the  yawning 
tedium  of  some  of  our  Cromarty  parties,  and  caught  to  the 
life  the  tone  of  the  sort  of  flippancy  which  has  to  pass  in 
them  for  wit.  'Tis  a  sad  waste  of  time,  my  own  Lydia,  to 
be  engaged  in  such ;  how  much  better  could  we  not  con- 
trive to  spend  an  evening  with  only  ourselves  for  our 
guests !  But  I  suppose  parties  everywhere  are  almost 
equally  profitless.  They  were  profitless  even  in  Athens,  in 
its  best  days.  c  Why,'  says  Socrates,  '  do  the  people  call 
in  musicians  when  they  entertain  their  friends  ?  Is  it  not 
because  they  have  not  learned  to  converse  ? ' ' 

"  BAYFIELD-WOOD,  2  o'clock. 

"  Where  are  you  at  present,  my  Lydia,  or  how  are  you. 
employed  ?  Am  I  with  you  as  you  are  with  me,  or  has  my 
idea  for  a  time  entirely  left  you?  Would  that  you  were 
now  beside  me.  I  always  feel  as  if  at  home  when  in  a 
wood.  One  wood  is  so  like  another,  and  every  wood  so 
like  the  one  I  am  best  acquainted  with,  —  that  which  covers 
the  hill  of  Cromarty.  Heigho !  when  shall  we  spend  our 


THE   SANDS   OF   NIGG.  315 

days  together?   and  where?    I  breakfasted   at  Inverness 

with  a  very  happy  couple,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  T ,  and, 

more  for  our  comfort,  the  husband  is  fully  twice  the  age  of 
the  wife  ;  I,  you  know,  am  only  ten  years  older  than  you. 
The  match  was  a  love  one  on  both  sides,  —  in  reality,  what- 
ever the  world  may  think,  the  most  prudent  matches  of 
any.  I  saw,  in  my  journey,  a  second  and  still  more  strik- 
ing proof  of  this.  J.  S has  several  aunts  who  pru- 
dently married  men  in  rather  easy  circumstances,  and  one 
aunt  (Aunt  Barbara),  who  was  so  foolish  as  to  marry  a 
man  who  was  poor,  —  merely  because  she  loved  him, — 
and  who  had  little  else  to  recommend  him  in  the  eyes  of 
the  unprejudiced  than  the  possession  of  more  sound  sense 
and  sterling  worth  than  fell  to  the  share  of  all  the  other 
husbands  put  together.  The  match,  as  you  may  think,  was 
very  rationally  deemed  a  bad  one ;  but,  somehow,  circum- 
stances are  less  fixed  than  the  characters  of  men,  and  it 
has  so  chanced  that  Aunt  Barbara's  husband  holds,  at  this 
time,  a  rather  higher  place  in  society  than  the  husband  of 
any  of  the  others  ;  the  match  has,  in  consequence,  become 
a  good  one.  What  if  ours,  you  imprudent,  foolish  girl, 
should  yet  become  a  good  one  too !  " 

"  MANSE  or  KILMUIR,  half-past  7  o'clock. 
"  I  was  on  the  way  to  the  ferry  this  evening,  but  John 

impressed  me  to  accompany  him  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  M . 

We  crossed  the  sands  of  Nigg  together,  —  a  long,  dreary 
flat,  roughened  by  the  cord-like  hillocks  of  the  sand-worm, 
and  speckled  with  shells.  Barren  and  dreary  as  it  may 
seem,  I  know  no  part  of  the  country  busier  with  life. 
Myriads  of  sea-cockles  have  grown  up  and  perished  in  it, 
age  after  age,  till  the  shells  have  so  accumulated,  that  in 
some  places  they  form  beds  many  feet  in  thickness ;  and, 
though  thousands  of  cart-loads  have  of  late  -years  been 


316  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

carried  away  for  lime,  the  supply  seems  as  great  as  at  first. 
As  we  passed  through,  immense  shoals  of  shrimps  and 
young  flounders  were  striking  against  our  naked  feet, — 
reminding  me,  from  their  numbers  and  their  extreme 
minuteness,  of  the  cloud  of  flies  that  buzzed  round  my 
head  at  noon.  I  saw  the  sand-worms  lie  so  thickly  that 
their  little  pyramids  fretted  the  entire  surface  nearly  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  reminding  one  of  the  ripple  raised 
by  a  light  breeze  on  a  sheet  of  water,  while  the  remote 
horizon  was  darkened  by  endless  beds  of  mussels  and  peri- 
winkles. I  am  certain  there  is  more  of  animal  life  in  a  few 
acres  of  this  waste  than  is  comprised  in  the  human  popula- 
tion of  the  entire  world.  In  some  comparatively  recent 
era,  —  recent,  at  least,  in  the  chronology  of  the  geologist, 
—  the  sea  seems  to  have  stood  several  fathoms  higher  on 
our  coasts  than  it  does  at  present.  Large  beds  of  shells 
have  been,  found  in  the  interior  of  the  valley,  the  opening 
of  which  is  occupied  by  the  sands  of  Nigg,  more  than  two 
miles  beyond  the  extreme  rise  of  the  tide ;  and  John  tells 
me  that,  not  many  years  since,  the  bones  of  a  fish  of  the 
whale  species  were  found  in  the  parish  of  Fearn,  at  a  still 
higher  level. 

"I  was  shown,  on  quitting  the  sands,  two  fine  chalybeate 
springs,  which  gush  out  of  a  rock  of  veined  sandstone 
among  the  woods  of  Tarbat-house.  They  are  thickly  sur- 
rounded by  pine  and  willow,  in  a  solitary  but  not  unpleas- 
ing  recess,  and  their  waters,  after  leaping  to  the  base  of  the 
rock,  with  a  half-gurgling,  half-tinkling  sound,  unite  in  a 
small  runnel,  and  form  a  little  melancholy  lochan,  matted 
over  with  weeds,  and  edged  with  flags  and  rushes.  The 
waters  of  both  are  strongly  though  not  equally  acidulous, 
and  the  course  both  along  the  rock  and  through  the  runnel 
is  marked  by  a  steep  belt  of  ferruginous  matter,  which 


THE  GROUNDS  ABOUT  CROMA*RTY.        317 

might    be   converted  into   a  pigment,   resembling  burnt- 
sienna." 

"  FERRY  DALE,  Wednesday,  half-past  11. 

"  How  delightful  the  grounds  about  Cromarty  look  from 
this  side  the  bay !  Sir  George  Mackenzie,  of  Coul,  has 
remarked,  and  I  dare  say  he  is  quite  in  the  right,  that  they 
are  unequalled  in  at  least  all  Ross-shire,  but  that  the  taste 
displayed  in  laying  them  out  belongs  to  the  obsolete  school 
of  a  century  ago.  The  hill-side,  for  instance,  instead  of 
being  divided  into  square  parks,  should  have  been  tufted 
with  clumps  of  coppice,  the  edge  of  the  wood  ought  to  have 
been  broken  by  the  trees  advancing  in  some  places  and 
retiring  in  others,  and  the  enclosures  should  have  run  in 
waving  rather  than  in  straight  lines.  How  innumerable, 
my  Lydia,  are  the  associations  connected  with  the  scene 
before  me  !  Yonder  is  the  burying-ground  of  my  father,  and 
yonder  the  house  of  my  mother.  There  is  hardly  a  spot  my 
eye  can  rest  on  that  is  not  wedded  to  the  past  by  some  in- 
teresting tradition ;  and  then,  how  enriched  is  the  whole 
scene  by  my  recollections  of  you !  Yonder  is  the  beechen 
tree,  and  yonder  the  Lover's  Leap,  and  yonder  the  little 
rocky  recess  in  which  I  met  with  you  last  winter,  with  so 
little  hope  of  ever  meeting  with  you  again.  Yonder,  too,  is 
the  old  chapel  of  St.  Regulus,  yonder  the  Ladies'  Walk, 
and  yonder  the  house  of  Mrs.  F .  What  little,  insect- 
looking  things  we  are !  Quick  and  sharp  as  my  sight  is, 
were  you  in  the  opening  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  I  would 
see  you  merely  as  a  little  speck. 

"  '  Butler '  I  must  return  you  unread ;  as  between  writing, 
working,  and  thinking  of  you,  I  have  no  time  to  devote  to 
him.  But  here  comes  the  ferry-boat." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

LETTERS    TO    MISS    DUNBAR   OF    BOATH  —  MR.     J.    R.     ROBERT- 
SON'S   RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MILLER. 

y^  ^XCEPT  Miss  Fraser,  Miller's  most  favored  corre- 
B  I  J  sP°ndent  a^  this  time  was  Miss  Dunbar  of  Boath. 
^^J/  She  read  and  admired  his  poems  soon  after  their 
appearance,  and  his  correspondence  with  her  began 
some  two  years  before  he  saw  Miss  Fraser.  He  refers  to 
her  in  terms  of  admiring  affection  in  the  "  Schools  and 
Schoolmasters,"  and  the  letters  which  passed  between  them 
prove  that  the  feeling  on  both  sides  was  one  of  ardent  es- 
teem and  tender  enthusiasm.  She  was  about  twenty  years 
his  senior,  and  her  tone  in  speaking  of  his  plans  and  pros- 
pects is  that  of  motherly  solicitude,  almost  of  motherly 
pride.  The  tender  strength  of  the  affection  with  which, 
unconsciously  and  without  effort,  he  inspired  her,  is  remark- 
able. The  fascination  of  his  gentleness  and  sincerity,  and 
of  the  gleams  of  beauty  in  which  his  genius  revealed  itself 
when  he  spoke,  is  nowhere  more  strikingly  evinced  than  in 
the  spell  which  he  -cast  over  this  noble  woman.  He  visited 
her  twice  in  Forres,  and  she  spent  three  weeks  in  Cromarty, 
principally  in  order  to  enjoy  his  society.  These  and  other 
circumstances  of  their  intercourse  are  alluded  to  in  the  cor- 
respondence. Along  with  the  letters  of  Miller  to  Miss  Dun- 
bar  are  given  one  or  two  passages  from  hers  to  him :  — 

318 


LETTERS   TO    MISS   DUNBAR.  319 

"  CROMARTY,  November,  1829. 

"  I  have  perused  two  of  the  works  you  have  so  obligingly 
sent  me,  —  the  volume  of  poems  and  the  '  Wolf  of  Bade- 
noch.'  Both  have  afforded  me  much  pleasure,  and  added,  I 
trust,  to  the  stock  of  my  ideas. 

"  It  has  been  remarked,  and  I  believe  with  justice,  that, 
while  the  historian  immortalizes  other  men,  the  poet  immor- 
talizes only  himself.  A  reason  may  be  assigned  for  this. 
We  deem  the  historian  merely  a  medium  through  which  we 
become  acquainted  with  men  and  events,  and  are  taught  by 
him  without  growing  intimate  with  our  teacher,  —  just  as 
we  admire  the  figures  in  a  painting  without  once  thinking 
of  the  canvas  on  which  they  are  portrayed.  It  does  not 
fare  so  with  the  poet.  From  creation  we  infer  a  Creator, 
and  from  the  creations  of  the  poet  we  rise  by  an  unavoid- 
able associative  process  to  the  poet  himself.  We  consider 
him  not  as  our  teacher,  but  as  our  friend.  He  is  not  like 
the  canvas  of  a  picture,  but  like  the  groundwork  of  a  piece 
of  embroidery,  —  a  thing  which  blends  with  and  relieves 
every  flower  and  figure  raised  on  it.  ... 

"  From  what  I  have  read  of  Spenser,  I  find  reason  to 
deem  him  both  a  true  poet  and  a  sound  philosopher ;  but 
from  the  suddenness  of  the  transition  from  the  c  Wolf  of 
Badenoch '  to  the  ;  Faery  Queen/  I  am  led  (shall  I  make  the 
confession?)  to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  two 
works  which  does  not  very  much  exalt  my  opinion  of  the 
latter.  I  am  no  critic.  Spenser  is,  I  doubt  not,  a  finer 
poet  and  a  greater  genius  than  Sir  Thomas,  but  certain  I 
am  that  Spenser  does  not  amuse  me  half  so  much.  His 
heroes  and  heroines  are  not  real  men  and  women  like  Sir 
Thomas',  nor  do  they  come  crowding  round  me  in  my  soli- 
tary walks,  like  his.  The  one  work  is  full  of  a  stirring,  day 
reality,  my  recollections  of  the  other  blend  with  those  of 
my  dreams.  I  shall,  however,  I  doubt  not,  relish  Spenser 


320  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

better  when  my  remembrance  of  the  creations  of  Sir  Thomas 
wax  fainter." 

FROM   MISS   DUNBAR    OF    BOATH. 

"FORBES,  15  January,   1830. 

"  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  your  letter,  and  gratified 
to  find  I  had  been  the  means  of  procuring  you  so  much 
pleasure  as  you  have  derived  from  the  perusal  of  '  Wolf 
and  the  poems. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder  said,  on  seeing  your  letter  to 
me  :  - '  The  author  of  the  "  Wolf  of  Badenoch,"  whoever  that 
might  be,  had  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  opinion  you  ex- 
pressed of  it/  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  read  Spenser  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  proper  to  a  young  poet,  when  you  go  to 
it  with  a  mind  dispossessed  of  other  subjects. 

u  Miss  Smith  tells  me  you  are  going  to  Inverness  to  work 
at  your  handicraft.  I  suppose  you  will  occasionally  work 
for  Mr.  Carruthers ;  he  seems  to  be  a  clever  man,  and  I 
think  the  '  Courier '  bespeaks  him  a  man  of  independence. 
1  hope  he  will  continue  to  prove  himself  such  in  a  place 
distracted  by  low  politics  and  a  narrow  party  spirit,  too 
often  vented  in  ungenerous,  personal  reflections.  I  conjure 
you  to  be  on  your  guard,  and  preserve  yourself  from  any 
share  or  feeling  in  these  contests.  Do  not  lend  your  fine 
talent  to  either  or  any  side ;  next  to  your  integrity  to 
Heaven,  maintain  your  independence  ;  be  courteous  to  every 
one,  but  render  party  service  to  none,  and  you  will  make 
yourself  many  friends  and  no  enemies." 

Miller's  next  letter  is  not  dated,  but  it  was  evidently 
written  at  Cromarty  soon  after  the  preceding :  — 

"  Ever  since  I  knew  myself  I  have  hovered  on  the  verge 
of  two  distinct  worlds,  —  the  one  a  gay  creation  of  happy, 
animated  dreams,  the  other  a  dull  scene  of  cold,  untoward 


THE  REAL  AND  THE  IDEAL.          321 

realities.  Into  the  former  I  have  often  been  drawn  by  in- 
clination ;  into  the  latter,  dragged  by  necessity.  I  have 
enjoyed  so  much  in  the  one,  and  suffered  so  much  in  the 
other,  that  I  have  sometimes  been  disposed  to  regard  them 
as  the  opposing  scales  in  which  good  and  evil  were  to  be 
doled  out  to  me  by  Providence.  Had  I  indulged,  however, 
in  so  fanciful  a  theory,  a  few  events  of  late  occurrence 
would  have  overturned  it ;  the  real  scene  has  begun  to  pre- 
sent an  aspect  not  very  unlike  that  of  the  imaginary  ;  and 
that  I  should  be  held  not  unworthy  of  the  notice  of  such  as 
Miss  Dunbar,  is  a  circumstance  which  I  deem  characteristic 
of  the  change. 

"  Your  kind  intention  of  introducing  me  to  the  notice  of 
Professor  Wilson  has,  I  believe,  been  anticipated  by  Prin- 
cipal Baird.  ...  A  Mr.  Gordon,  Secretary  to  the 
Highland  Society,  who  himself  writes  for  'Blackwood,' 
made  me  a  similar  offer ;  but  I  declined  both,  on  the  ground 
that  I  did  not  consider  myself  as  yet  free  of  the  craft  of 
authorship.  The  truth  is,  I  am  unwilling  to  convert  my 
literary  amusements  into  mere  matters  of  business ;  and  I 
am  afraid  that,  were  I  to  set  myself  down  to  write  for 
money,  I  would  soon  learn  to  consider  them  as  such.  Be- 
fore I  became  a  mason,  I  have  spent  whole  days  in  con- 
structing arches,  and  in  building  towers  and  houses  ;  now, 
however,  I  seldom  either  build  or  hew,  except  when  I  cannot 
help  it.  It  would  be  a  sad  matter  were  prose  and  verse  to 
become  but  half  as  irksome  to  me  as  building  and  hewing. 
Besides,  I  have  little  need  for  money,  and  need  not  risk  any 
of  my  happiness  in  striving  to  acquire  it.  I  am  nearly  as 
poor  and  as  rich  as  the  old  cynic,  Diogenes,  though,  I 
trust,  not  so  ill-natured.  I  am  poor  in  worldly  goods,  rich 
in  moderate  desires.  He  who  has  lived  contentedly  on  half 
a  crown  per  week  is  by  no  means  so  much  within  the  reach 


322  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

of  fortune  as  thousands  of  the  people  who  would  not  scruple 
to  term  him  a  very  poor  man. 

"  Accept  my  thanks  for  your  excellent  advice  regarding 
the  manner  in  which  I  ought  to  conduct  myself  with  respect 
to  the  partisans  of  Inverness.  .  .  .  About  a  fortnight 

ago  I  saw  an  article  in  the ,  the  matter  of  which 

declared  that  paper  to  have  a  very  long  list  of  subscribers, 
and  the  manner  of  which  very  satisfactorily  proved  that  it 
ought  to  have  a  very  short  one.  I  took  up  the  thing  with 
all  coolness,  and  perfectly  free  of  party  prejudice  ;  I  laid  it 

down  boiling  with  indignation I  found  my 

friend,  Mr.  Carruthers,  treated  by  him  in  a  manner  in  which 
no  gentleman  ever  treated  any  one  ;  and  you  know,  madam, 
it  is  much  easier  to  forgive  one's  own  enemy  than  the  enemy 

of  one's  friend I  intend  writing  nothing  but 

prose  until  I  have  improved  my  talent  for  this  species  of 
composition  to  its  utmost  of  my  capability.  I  am  at  present 
rather  out  of  conceit  with  poetry  ;  and,  were  it  not  for  one 
circumstance,  I  would  deem  the  publication  of  my  little 
volume  a  subject  of  regret.  That  one  is,  the  impulse  which 
the  coming  in  contact  by  its  means  with  the  public  has 
given  to  my  mind.  Formerly  my  mind  was  slow  and  indo- 
lent ;  it  is  now  comparative!}7-  roused  into  activity ;  and  I 
am  led  to  think  that  the  much  which  is  dull  and  tame  in  my 
printed  poems  is  rather  to  be  attributed  to  that  apathetical 
indifference  which,  about  two  years  ago,  constituted  my 
almost  every-day  mood,  than  to  any  want  of  native  power. 
You  smile  at  my  conceit.  Well,  I  have  done  so  myself. 
Remember,  however,  that  the  species  of  conceit  which  I 
display  on  the  present  occasion  is  not  quite  that  of  the  past. 
It  plumes  itself  on  an  ability  to  produce,  not  upon  anything 
produced  already.  ...  I  begin  to  relish  Spenser.  .  .  . 

"  You  inquire  regarding  my  plans  and  prospects.  The 
former  are  not  complex,  the  latter  are  not  gloomy.  In 


PLANS   AND    PROSPECTS.  323 

the  spring,  summer,  and  autumn  seasons  I  intend  plying 
the  mallet,  that  I  may  be  independent ;  in  the  winter  I  pur- 
pose exercising  the  pen,  that  I  may  be  amused,  and  (the 
truth  will  out)  that  I  may  be  known.  With  independence, 
amusement,  and  a  very  small  portion  of  celebrity,  I  trust  to 
enjoy  a  competent  share  of  happiness  ;  and,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  God,  to  prove  myself  not  quite  unworthy  the 
esteem  of  the  few  individuals  whose  characters  resemble 
that  of  my  present  correspondent." 

The  Mr.  Strahan  referred  to  in  the  fallowing  letter  was 
one  of  the  many  friends  whom  the  publication  of  his  poems 
procured  him.  Mr.  Strahan  was  himself  a  writer  of  poetry  ; 
and  it  may  be  mentioned  that  it  is  a  son  of  his  whose  name 
appears  on  the  title-page  of  this  biography.  Furthermore, 
that  it  was  on  Miller's  recommendation  and  advice  that  the 
publishing  profession  was  chosen  for  the  son  of  his  friend, 
—  Miller  himself  making  the  necessary  arrangements  with 
Messrs.  Johnstone  and  Hunter  of  Edinburgh  : "  — 

"CROMARTY,  March  12,  1831. 

"  In  the  long,  beautiful  days  of  summer  I  have  often 
pitied  my  friend  Mr.  Strahan,  confined  as  he  is  by  his  pro- 
fession to  a  dull,  monotonous  apartment.  After  flinging 
down  my  mallet  to  contemplate  the  glorious  sunshine, 
poured  out  around  me  on  the  fields,  woods,  and  mountains, 
when  a  light  refreshing  breeze,  laden  with  the  scents  of  the 
wild  flowers,  has  come  sweeping  over  me,  or  a  sudden  gush 
of  melody  has  burst  from  a  neighboring  thicket,  I  have 
deemed  myself  the  happiest  of  all  mechanics.  But  mark 
the  contrast ;  winter  comes,  and  then  Mr.  Strahan's  profes- 
sion proves  the  better  of  the  two.  The  thicket  has  still  its 
music,  for  the  blast  howls  through  it,  loud  and  continuous 
as  the  roar  of  the  ocean ;  shower  after  shower  conies  beat- 
ing against  me,  dashing  my  poor  tangled  tresses  against 


324  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

my  cheeks  ;  there  is  no  solace  in  looking  abroad,  all  is  dull 
and  dismal,  —  nature  lies  dead,  and  the  very  firmament  is 
but  a  burial  vault ;  and  thus  I  toil  on,  till  a  colder  blast  or 
a  heavier  shower  sends  me  home  half  frozen,  and  somewhat 
less  than  half  alive,  to  cower  and  chitter  over  the  fire. 
Well,  such  is  the  balance  of  human  life.  Where  are  they 
that  have  no  winter  ?  .  .  .  . 

u  You  recommend  to  me  the  study  of  sculpture  as  a 
means  of  bettering  my  condition  in  life.  Why,  it  can't  be 
much  bettered.  'Tis  true  I  am  not  rich,  —  and  yet,  thanks 
to  the  industry  of  my  father,  should  Lord  J.  Russell  carry 
his  motion,  I  shall  have  a  voice  in  the  legislation  of  my 
country.  With  books,  which  you  so  obligingly  offer  me,  I 
am  rather  poorly  provided ;  but  the  great  book  of  nature 
lies  continually  open  before  me,  and  were  I  to  live  to  the 
age  of  Methusaleh,  I  would  still  have  much  of  it  to  peruse. 
Oh,  with  what  splendid  passages  are  its  pages  filled  !  " 

The  incident  of  Miss  Smith's  falling  into  the  burn  (of 
Eathie),  alluded  to  in  the  next  letter,  occurred  at  one  of 
those  picnics  of  which  Miller  and  his  Cromarty  friends  were 
fond.  Miss  Smith,  having  fallen  into  the  burn,  was  con- 
templated by  Hugh  with  a  placid  interest  which  did  not  in 
the  least  prompt  him  to  lend  assistance.  He  was  consider- 
ably bantered  for  his  ungallant  conduct.  From  the  con- 
cluding portion  of  the  letter  it  is  evident  that  Miss  Dunbar 
had  pressed  Miller  to  visit  her. 

"CROMARTY,  March  12,  1833. 

"  You  have  been  unwell  for  a  long,  long  time,  but  now 
that  you  have  recovered  I  may  venture  to  say  c  It  was  all 
for  the  best,'  without,  I  trust,  subjecting  myself  to  the  sus- 
picion of  being  one  of  those  cold,  philosophic  sort  of  people, 
—  mere  abstract  intelligence,  —  who  are  so  bravely  em- 
ployed in  thinking  that  they  have  no  time  to  feel.  Indis- 


PHILOSOPHY    OF   SICKNESS.  325 

position  is,  to  be  sure,  a  sad  thing  in  itself.  Sad  matter 
for  the  soul  to  be  sitting  in  darkness,  in  the  recesses  of  her 
poor  shattered  tenement,  like  Marius  amid  the  ruins  of  Car- 
thage ;  to  have  at  morning  to  breathe  one's  wishes  in  the 
language  of  the  text,  '  Would  God  it  were  evening ! '  and  at 
evening,  c  Would  God  it  were  morning ! '  But  when  we 
consider  human  life  as  a  whole,  and  man  as  a  creature  that 
lives  both  in  the  past  and  the  future,  we  see  that  even  pain 
and  sickness  form  parts  of  a  beautiful  and  well-arranged 
system.  Nay,  I  am  convinced,  paradoxical  as  the  opinion 
may  appear,  that  they  add  nearly  as  much  to  the  sum  of 
human  happiness  as  they  take  from  it.  You,  my  dear 
madam,  have  been  long  very  unwell,  and  now  you  have 
recovered,  —  recovered  what?  health?  —  nay,  that  would 
be  but  little,  you  had  that  some  few  months  before, — have 
you  not  also  recovered  your  youth?  —  the  freshness,  gayety, 
and  the  warm  hopes  of  girlhood  ?  Life  palls  upon  us  when 
our  course  through  it  lies,  if  I  may  so  speak,  on  a  smooth, 
level  road,  bounded  by  two  straight  walls,  and  we  grow  old 
in  our  spirits  while  we  are  yet  young  in  years ;  not  so 
when  the  path  goes  winding  over  hills  and  valleys,  with 
here  a  deep,  broad  stream  which  we  must  ford  at  the  risk 
of  being  swept  away,  and  there  a  beautiful  meadow  with  its 
flowers  and  its  birds.  Every  recovery  one  has  from  sick- 
ness is  in  some  degree  a  return  of  one's  youth,  and  I  could 
almost  endure  to  be  many  times  sick  for  the  sake  of  being 
many  times  young. 

"  Now  that  I  have  got  into  this  train,  I  must  give  you  the 
result  of  my  speculations  on  character,  of  which  you  your- 
self (nay,  do  not  start)  are  in  some  measure  the  subject. 
I  have  observed  that  you  are  one  of  that  happy  class  of 
people  who  have  the  principle  of  immortality  so  strong 
within  them  that  they  never  become  old.  The  whole  human 
race  may  be  divided  into  two  grand  classes,  but  the  one 


326  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

is  to  be  reckoned  by  its  tens,  and  the  other  by  its  millions. 
In  the  more  numerous  class,  we  see  man  the  animal,  the 
creature  of  corruption  and  decay ;  in  the  other,  man  the 
child  of  eternity.  The  young  of  most  animals  are  gay, 
sportive  creatures,  to  whom  life  is  enjoyment,  —  only  think 
of  the  lamb  and  the  kitten  ;  but  the  one  becomes  the  stolid, 
ruminating  sheep,  the  other  a  staid,  demure  puss,  with  a 
great  deal  of  worldly  wisdom,  and  powers  of  gravity  alto- 
gether incalculable.  Thus  it  is  with  the  animal  class  of 
men.  You  may  know  their  age  as  exactly  by  the  state  of 
their  minds  as  that  of  a  cow  by  the  rings  on  her  horns ; 
they  are  playful  in  youth,  grave  and  staid  when  mature, 
stupid  in  old  age ;  their  minds  are  so  much  of  a  piece  with 
their  bodies,  that  it  needs  no  ordinary  powers  of  faith  to 
believe  that  they  will  not  perish  together.  The  people  of 
the  other  class  are  animals,  it  is  true,  —  the  more  the  pity, 
—  but  the  man  preponderates  in  them  over  the  animal.  It 
is  the  part  of  them  which  neither  dies  nor  becomes  old,  that 
gives  their  character  its  tone.  We  see  the  earthy  house  of 
one  of  this  class  falling  into  decay,  and  know  that  it  must 
soon  be  altogether  uninhabitable ;  but  then  the  tenant  is 
still  young,  and  all  we  think  of  the  matter  is,  that  when 
term  day  comes,  he  must  just  leave  the  falling  tenement, 
and  go  somewhere  else.  Even  so  much  as  to  dream  of  his 
perishing  along  with  it  would  be  preposterous.  It  is  his 
house  that  is  falling  into  decay,  not  he  himself.  You,  my 
dear  madam,  are  one  of  these  young  people,  and  I  congratu- 
late you  on  the  fact ;  I  myself,  perhaps,  belong  to  them ; 
but  in  my  case  there  is  a  sad  circumstance  which  nearly 
balances  this  advantage.  You  very  wisely  became  a  young 
woman  before  you  stood  still ;  I,  on  the  other  hand,  grew 
up  to  be  a  boy  some  fifteen  years  ago,  and  a  boy  (don't 
tell)  I  have  continued  ever  since.  Can't  help  it,  how- 
ever. .  .  .  How  defend  my  conduct  in  the  burn? 


LETTERS   TO    MISS   DUNBAR.  327 

Very  easily.  Never  was  there  young  lady  so  wofully  in 
danger  of  falling  a  martyr  to  a  classical  association.  You 
remember  the  old  mythological  story  of  Venus  springing 
from  the  waves  of  the  sea.  On  seeing  Miss  Smith  rising 
out  of  the  stream,  instead  of  thinking  on  the  best  means  of 
extricating  her,  I  could  think  of  only  the  story.  And  I 
could  not  help  that,  you  know !  If  Miss  Smith,  however, 
will  but  favor  me  by  falling  into  the  burn  a  second  time,  no 
association,  however  classical,  shall  come  between  me  and 
my  duty. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  your  c  little  chamber  in  the 
wall,'  with  its  bed  and  its  stool,  and  find  that  it  wants  only 
the  prophet ;  but  a  word  in  your  ear,  the  prophet  is  not  at 
all  sure  that  he  has  yet  succeeded  in  establishing  the  authen- 
ticity of  his  mission,  and  is  disposed,  until  he  has  done  so, 
to  content  himself  with  the  modicum  of  honor  which  he 
receives  in  his  own  country.  If  my  Traditions  come  out,  I 
am  vain  enough  to  think  I  might  venture  in  the  strength  of 
them  as  far  as  Forres  ;  but  to  be  pointed  out  in  such  a  place 
merely  as  the  author  of  a  volume  of  prose  rhyme  would 
seriously  injure  my  pride.  You  have  now  my  secret.  It  is 
based  on  a  weakness  in  my  disposition,  which  I  would  not 
much  like  to  unveil  to  everybody ;  but  I  know  with  whom  I 
have  to  deal,  —  one  too  intimate  with  human  nature,  and 
too  conversant  with  its  better  feelings,  to  be  severe  on  what 
is  wayward  in  the  character  of,  honored  and  dear  madam," 
etc. 

Miss  Dunbar  is  not  disposed  to  put  up  with  this  excuse 
for  refusing  to  visit  her,  and  has  expostulated  on  the  sub- 
ject. Miller  now  offers  to  go.  His  half-comic,  half-savage 
remarks  on  the  Cromarty  Radicals  are  characteristic.  The 
pamphlet  mentioned  I  take  to  have  been  that  on  the  Chapel 
Case,  of  which  we  have  heard. 

"  I  have  been  a  very  great  blockhead ;  not  so  much  for 


328  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

raising  the  curtain,  as  for  having  anything  behind  it  which 
were  better  concealed  than  seen.  Instead,  however,  of 
apologizing  in  the  ordinary  way,  I  shall  just  raise  it  a  little 
higher,  and  give  you  a  full  view  of  what  you  are  yet  only 
acquainted  with  in  part.  In  a  case  like  the  present  it  is 
policy  to  be  candid.  Is  it  not  partial  views  and  half 
glimpses  that  convert  bushes  and  stones  into  ghosts  and 
witches  ? 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  was  no  fear  of  being  made  a 
lion  of,  that  kept  me  on  this  side  the  frith.  I  know  you 
better  than  to  fear  that.  I  may  indeed  belong  to  the  class 
felis  in  both  your  opinion  and  my  own  ;  —  but  then  so  does 
the  common  cat ;  besides,  at  the  very  best  I  am  but  what 
the  schoolmen  would  term  a  possible  lion,  and  it  has  long 
since  been  decided  by  the  Angelical  Doctor  that  an  existent 
fly  is  better  than  even  a  possible  angel.  But  though  I  had 
no  fear  on  this  head,  I  am  a  most  foolish  fellow,  and  there 
is  a  feeling  —  a  morbid  one,  I  suspect  —  that  continually 
hangs  about  me  that  produced  in  this  matter  nearly  the 
same  effects  as  if  I  had.  I  must  explain.  You  remember 
Addison's  description  of  those  trap-doors  on  the  bridge  of 
Mirza,  through  which  the  unfortunate  passengers  were  con- 
tinually dropping  into  the  water  ?  The  minds  of  some  men 
abound  with  such  doors.  Their  judgments  seem  stately 
structures,  if  I  may  so  speak,  that  connect  the  opposite  re- 
gions of  causes  and  effects,  of  means  and  ends ;  we  see 
their  purposes  and  resolves  moving  rapidly  along  the 
arches,  and  think  they  cannot  fail  of  passing  from  the  one 
extreme  point  to  the  other.  Suddenly,  however,  they  dis- 
appear in  the  midst,  and  leave  their  objects  unattained.  Or, 
to  drop  the  allegory :  How  often  are  we  surprised  in  even 
superior  men  by  some  unthought-of  inconsistency  that  mars 
all  their  wisdom,  some  latent  weakness  that  neutralizes  all 
their  powers !  There  is,  my  dear  madam,  a  weakness,  an 


HIS   DIFFIDENCE.  329 

inconsistency,  a  trap-door  of  this  kind  in  the  mind  of  the 
poor  fellow  who  has  now  the  honor  of  addressing  you.  Its 
appearances  and  modes  of  operation  are  as  various  as  the 
circumstances  in  which  it  exhibits  itself,  but,  for  a  general 
name,  I  believe  I  may  term  it  diffidence.  It  torments  me 
as  much  as  conscience  does  some  men.  For  instance : 
There  are  a  few  excellent  people  in  Cromarty  whose  com- 
pany I  deem  very  agreeable,  and  whose  friendship  I  value 
very  highly,  but  whose  thresholds  without  a  special  invita- 
tion I  never  cross.  Why?  Just  because  diffidence  tells 
me  that  I  am  but  a  poor  mechanic,  regarded  with  a  kind, 
perhaps,  but  still  compassionate  feeling,  and  that,  if  I  but 
take  the  slightest  commonest  liberty  of  social  intercourse, 
it  is  at  the  peril  of  being  deemed  forward  and  obtrusive. 
Well,  I  receive  an  invitation  and  accept  it.  I  come  in  con- 
tact with  persons  whom  I  like  very  much ;  the  better  feel- 
ings are  awakened  within  me,  the  intellectual  machine  is 
set  a-working,  and  I  communicate  my  ideas  as  they  rise. 
'  You  chattering  blockhead,'  says  Diffidence,  the  moment  I 
return  home,  '  what  right,  pray,  had  you  to  engross  so 
much  of  the  conversation  to-night?  You  are  a  pretty  fel- 
low, to  be  sure,  to  set  up  for  a  Sir  Oracle  !  Well,  you  had 
better  take  care  next  time.'  Next  time  comes,  and  I  am 
exceedingly  taciturn.  '  Pray,  Mr.  Block,'  says  Diffidence, 
the  instant  she  catches  me  alone,  '  what  fiend  tempted  you 
to  go  and  eat  the  lady's  bread  and  butter  to-night,  when 
you  had  determined  prepense  not  to  tender  her  so  much  as 
a  single  idea  in  return  ?  A  handsome  piece  of  furniture, 
truty,  to  be  stuck  up  at  the  side  of  a  tea-table.  Perhaps, 
however,  you  were  too  good  for  your  company,  and 
wish  to  make  them  feel  that  you  thought  so.'  But  truce 
with  the  accusations  of  the  witch ;  fifty  pages  would  not 
contain  the  whole.  Was  not  Diffidence  the  wife  of  that 
giant  Despair,  whom  Mr.  Greatheart  slew  when  he  demol- 


330  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

ished  Castle  Doubting?  She,  too,  is  said  to  have  perished 
at  the  same  time,  but  both  must  since  have  been  resusci- 
tated. I  stand,  however,  in  no  fear  of  the  husband,  giant 
though  he  be  ;  but  alas  for  the  iron  despotism  of  his  lady  ! 

"Need  I  say  anything  more  on  this  head?  Just  one 
other  sentence.  Some  of  the  concluding  lines  of  my  last 
were  written  indeed  by  me,  but  only  as  amanuensis  to  the 
giantess.  And  now  that  I  have  made  a  full  disclosure,  and 
constituted  you  my  confessor,  what  penance  are  you  to  im- 
pose ?  I  am  just  going  to  ask  you  whether  I  shall  yet  get 
leave  to  visit  you  some  time  in  the  leafy  end  of  May ;  and 
if  you  are  very,  very  angry,  and  intend  being  very,  very 
severe,  it  is  in  your  power  fully  to  avenge  yourself  by  for- 
bidding me  to  come  at  all.  I  often  think  of  Forres,  not 
much,  indeed,  comparatively  at  least,  of  the  beauties  of  its 
scenery,  or  of  its  old  castles  and  obelisks,  though  I  am  not 
the  kind  of  person  wholly  to  slight  these,  —  I  think  of  it  as 
the  home  of  some  of  my  friends  ;  particularly  as  the  home 
of  her  who  has  so  kindly  interested  herself  in  my  welfare, 
whose  friendship  I  have  deemed  so  much  an  honor,  and 
found  so  much  a  happiness,  and  who  in  her  warm-hearted- 
ness has  held  converse  with  me,  not  as  the  mere  lady  of 
birth  and  education  who  condescends  to  notice  some  poor, 
half-taught  mechanic,  but  such  as  one  intelligence  holds 
with  another  of  the  same  class.  It  is  wonderful  how 
numerous  the  analogies  are  which  subsist  between  the  in- 
tellectual and  material  worlds.  You  are  acquainted  with 
that  principle  of  attraction  which  binds  into  one  solid  mass 
any  amount  of  particles  which  have  been  pressed  together 
until  brought  within  the  sphere  of  its  influence,  and  that 
opposite  principle  which  makes  them  repel  one  another 
when  removed  from  out  of  this  sphere  by  the  least  possible 
distance.  And  are  there  not  similar  principles  operative  in 
the  respective  states  of  mere  acquaintanceship  and  friend- 


THE    CROMARTY    RADICALS.  831 

ship  ?  Is  there  not  repulsion  in  the  one,  attraction  in  the 
other?  Nay,  are  they  not  both  operative  in  even  friend- 
ship itself?  The  friend  who  converses  with  one  merely  on 
paper,  or  in  a  mixed  company,  or  under  the  influence  of 
some  such  evil  spirit  as  diffidence,  is  environed  by  an  at- 
mosphere very  different  from  that  which  surrounds  the 
friend  to  whom,  when  the  pen  is  happily  no  longer  of  use, 
the  world  shut  out,  and  the  fiend  dispossessed,  one  can  open 
one's  whole  heart,  and  mingle  thought  with  thought,  and 
feeling  with  feeling.  I  trust  that  before  the  end  of  May  I 
shall  have  availed  myself  so  much  of  your  kindness  as  to 
be  fully  within  the  influence  of  the  better  principle.  But 
not  one  word  of  Altyre,  —  remember  the  giant's  wife. 

"  We  of  Cromarty  "have  narrowly  missed  losing  our  min- 
ister, and  to  the  thinking  part  of  us  a  shrewd  loss  it  would 
have  been.  Mr.  Stewart  would  have  proved  himself  second 
to  none,  or  I  am  much  mistaken,  in  even  the  pulpit  once 
occupied  by  Dr.  Chalmers ;  but  who,  alas !  could  we  have 
got  to  fill  his?  And  I  much  suspect  that,  in  less  than  a 
twelvemonth,  he  himself  would  not  have  found  the  amount 
of  his  happiness  at  all  increased  by  the  change.  He  has 
too  little  of  the  working-day  world  about  him  for  the  bustle 
of  public  life,  and  his  mind,  with  all  its  powers,  is  not  of 
the  kind  best  fitted  for  a  regular  routine  of  business.  It 
is  said  of  the  lion  that,  with  all  his  immense  strength  and 
activity,  he  is  a  slow-paced  and  sluggish  feort  of  animal, 
and  that  though  on  extraordinary  occasions  he  can  leap 
twenty  feet  at  a  bound,  and  carry  off  a  buffalo  with  as 
much  ease  as  a  horse  carries  its  rider,  he  can  yet  lie  for 
whole  days  in  his  lair  half  asleep,  half  awake,  too  indolent 
to  move  head  or  limb.  There  is  something  of  this  disposi- 
tion in  Mr.  Stewart ;  not  that  he  wills  to  have  it,  but  be- 
cause he  has  been  born  with  it.  When  fresh  and  in  heart 
he  can  make  amazing  lion-like  efforts ;  but  he  is  no  steam 


332  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

engine,  and  must  be  indulged  with  long  breathing  spaces  in 
which  to  recover  himself.  With  all  his  eccentricity  he  is 
an  excellent  sort  of  fellow,  eloquent,  pious,  an  original 
thinker,  and  singularly  fortunate,  if  he  but  knew  it,  in  both 
his  friends  and  his  enemies  ;  a  person  of  spirit,  you  know, 
would  like  to  have  the  choosing  of  the  one  as  certainly  as 
that  of  the  other ;  but  Mr.  Stewart  somehow  does  not  seem 
to  be  aware  of  this.  It  so  happens  that  we  are  much  in- 
fested in  Cromarty  by  a  kind  of  vermin  called  Radicals, 
and  have  not  yet  got  an  act  of  parliament  for  knocking 
them  on  the  head.  To  Mr.  Stewart  they  bear  a  decided 
antipathy ;  very  naturally  as  blockheads  they  dislike  him 
for  his  genius,  and,  being  bad  men,  hate  him  as  Shylock  did 
Antonio,  c  for  he  is  a  Christian  ; '  and  I  am  afraid  the  petty 
annoyances  they  contrive  to  cast  in  his  way  molest  him  at 
times  more  than  they  ought.  He  has  weak  nerves,  lives 
retired,  and  has  scarcely  any  turn  for  friendship,  and  so 
little  hurts  him  ;  but  I  trust  he  will  yet  learn  wholly  to  dis- 
regard them.  I  am  a  Whig,  and  yet  they  do  me  the  honor 
of  hating  me  nearly  as  heartily  as  they  do  him ;  but  I  am 
a  thick-skinned,  rough,  shagged  kind  of  animal,  and  as  in 
all  the  bickers  in  which  they  have  engaged  me  I  have  con- 
trived somehow  to  get  the  laugh  on  my  side,  and  could 
besides  give  the  best  of  them  a  drubbing  would  they  but 
choose  to  favor  me  with  an  opportunity,  I  have  been  let 
alone  of  late.  •  You  have  seen  my  pamphlet.  Is  it  not  a 
piece  of  mortal  ill-nature?  Remember,  however,  that  I 
am  not  to  be  judged  with  regard  to  it  by  the  laws  of  the 
Duello.  I  had  not  to  fight  with  a  man  of  honor,  but  merely 
to  horsewhip  a  low  fellow  who  had  insulted  a  party  of 

ladies   and  a  reverend   gentleman 

"  For  my.  own  part,  though  no  one  can  surpass  me  in 
the  esteem  I  entertain  for  the  better  sex,  and  though,  per- 
haps, not  naturally  unsusceptible  of  the  softer  passion,  I 


EVENING   LANDSCAPE.  333 

deem  myself  as  much  tied  down  to  a  life  of  celibacy  as  if  I 
were  a  Romish  priest.  A  refined  taste  and  cultivated  un- 
derstanding I  have  vainly  sought  for  in  women  of  my  own 
sphere ;  and  though  I  have  sometimes  found  both  in  those 
of  another,  I  cannot  seriously  think  of  such  as  objects  on 
which  to  fix  a  hope.  No  one  of  a  superior  station  could 
become  my  wife  without  making  a  sacrifice  which  I  could 
not  permit  in  the  woman  I  loved  ;  I  could  not  wrong  her  so 
much  as  to  make  her  the  wife  of  a  poor  mechanic.  But 
friendship  still  remains  for  me.  Some  of  the  best  of  my 
species  do  not  disdain  to  be  connected  to  me  by  this  tie  ; 
and  with  the  help  of  God  it  is  my  purpose  so  to  live  that 
their  kindness  to  me  shall  be  no  sacrifice." 

The  speculations  on  the  philosophy  of  evil  in  the  follow- 
ing letter  are  not  without  ingenuity,  but  we  have  already 
seen  that  Miss  Fraser,  the  lady  who  accompanied  Miss 
Smith  in  the  walk  described  towards  the  close,  could  put 
the  needle-point  of  her  woman's  wit  and  logic  with  rather 
startling  effect  into  the  prettily  colored  balloons  which 
Miller  used  to  fly  upon  that  subject.  It  seems  probable 
that  she  pressed  him  closely  on  this  occasion,  and  that  the 
compliments  to  her  sex  into  which  he  launches  may  be 
viewed  partly  as  a  magnanimous  tribute  to  her  victory. 

"  CROMARTY,  May  21,  1833. 

"  What  exquisitely  lovely  evenings  this  month  has  given 
us !  I  have  just  been  out  among  the  woods  enjoying  one 
of  the  finest  sunsets  I  ever  witnessed,  and  a  very  pleasing 
flow  of  thought  besides.  The  clown  in  Othello  advises  the 
musicians  who  were  serenading  his  master  to  put  up  their 
pipes  unless  they  could  play  a  kind  of  music  that  could  not 
be  heard.  The  very  best  kind  I  am  acquainted  with  has 
this  peculiarity;  and  I  have  been  delighted  with  it  this 
evening.  The  trees  all  bursting  into  leaf,  the  sea,  the 


334  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

distant  hills,  the  slsy  glowing  with  crimson  and  orange,  a 
little  quiet  town,  — nay,  the  very  heath  and  moss,  and  the 
shapeless  blocks  of  stone  that  glimmered  red  to  the  light  in 
the  openings  of  the  wood,  —  all  seemed  to  me  the  chords  of 
an  immense  instrument  which  had  but  to  be  awakened  by 
the  soul  to  yield  it  a  sweet  music.  And  I  was  so  happy  as 
to  succeed  in  awakening  them.  I  felt  the  tranquillity  of  the 
scene  infused  into  my  mind,  and  (I  may  hazard  the  expres- 
sion) my  thoughts  and  feelings  as  if  beating  time  to  the 
tones  of  it.  The  unknown  author  of  '  Enthusiasm '  *  has 
made  an  ingenious  distinction  between  meditation  and 
those  more  vigorous  states  of  thought  in  which  the  cogita- 
tive faculties  alone  are  active,  and  he  has  said  that  the 
former  is  more  characteristic  of  the  Asiatic  cast  of  mind, 
the  latter  of  the  European.  If  the  remark  be  a  just  one,  I 
have  been  quite  an  Asiatic  this  evening,  if,  indeed,  we  may 
define  meditation  to  be  that  state  of  the  mind  in  which  its 
better  sentiments  and  its  intellectual  powers  are  active  to- 
gether though  perhaps  not  in  an  equal  degree  ;  these  combin- 
ing, or  creating,  or  arranging,  perhaps  slowly  and  lan- 
guidly, those  looking  on  with  intense  delight,  rejoicing  in 
every  idea,  and  loving  every  new  or  pleasing  image  with  an 
overpowering  love.  Take,  as  illustrative  of  what  I  mean, 
the  cogitations  of  a  few  minutes  of  this  evening.  I  stood 
on  the  sweep  of  a  grassy  declivity  sprinkled  over  with  for- 
est trees  and  bushes.  Some  of  the  former  spring  out  of  the 
higher  edge  of  the  bank,  and  interlace  their  boughs  at  a 
great  height  over  my  head  ;  some  of  them  have  fixed  their 
roots  so  much  farther  down,  that  my  eye  is  on  a  level  with 
the  cradle  which  the  magpie  has  built  for  her  young  among 
their  branches  ;  I  look  over  the  topmost  twigs  of  a  still 

*  Now  so  well  known  that  it  seems  almost  superfluous  to  name  him, 
—  Isaac  Taylor. 


BEAUTY    AND    DEFORMITY.  335 

lower  tree.  See  there  is  the  ash,  with  his  long,  massy  arms, 
that  shoot  off  from  the  trunk  at  such  acute  angles,  and  his 
dark,  sooty  blossoms  spread  over  him  as  if  he  were  mourn- 
ing ;  and  there  is  the  elm,  with  his  trunk  gnarled  and  ridged 
like  an  Egyptian  column,  and  his  flake-like  foliage  laid  on  in 
strips  that  lie  nearly  parallel  to  the  horizon  ;  and  there  is 
the  plane,  with  his  dark-green  leaves  and  dense  heavy  out- 
line, like  that  of  a  thunder-cloud ;  and  there,  too,  is  the 
birch,  —  a  tree  evidently  of  the  gentler  sex,  with  her  long 
flowing  tresses  falling  down  to  her  knee  ;  there,  also,  is  the 
lime,  and  the  larch,  and  the  beech,  and  the  silver  fir. 
What  a  combination  of  pleasing  forms  !  See  in  that  vista 
t6  the  right,  which  appears  so  exquisitely  beautiful,  every 
outline  is  a  wavy  one,  without  any  mixture  of  broken 
angles  or  straight  lines,  while  in  the  darker  recess  beside  it 
there  is  a  harsher,  stiffer  assemblage  of  forms  ;  it  is  full  of 
cross  lines  and  angles.  But  do  not  the  deformities  of  that 
recess  render  the  scene,  considered  as  a  whole,  more  perfect 
than  it  would  be  without  them  ?  Do  they  not  enable  me  to 
appreciate  what  is  exquisite  in  the  rest  of  it  ?  If  there  ex- 
isted no  such  thing  as  deformity,  we  could  have  known 
nothing  of  beauty ;  just  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
sickness,  health  would  not  be  a  word  in  our  vocabulary,  or 
as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  shade  or  darkness,  no  one 
would  ever  have  said,  '  It  is  a  good  thing  to  behold  the 
light.' 

"  And  is  it  not  true  that  the  scene  now  spread  out  before 
me,  with  its  many  beauties  and  its  few  deformities,  is  a 
work  of  the  Deity?  that  it  was  foreknown  of  him  at  a 
period  when  the  very  earth  of  which  it  forms  so  minute  a 
part  was  but  a  portion  of  empty  space  in  an  infinitely 
extended  vacuum  ;  nay,  that  it  was  foreknown  of  him  from 
all  eternity,  and  that  this  his  idea  of  it,  as  forming  a  por- 
tion of  his  infinite  knowledge  and  coexistent  with  himself, 


336  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

may  be  regarded  as  forming,  with  its  apparent  defects,  a 
part  of  himself,  though  he  be  perfect  and  indefectible  9  At 
least,  is  it  not  true  that  the  sentiment  of  beauty  and  the 
sense  of  deformity,  as  they  exist  in  the  human  mind,  are 
effects  of  which  he  is  the  cause,  that  the  scene  before  me  is 
marked  by  traits  that  arouse  this  sentiment  in  me,  and 
awaken  this  sense,  and  that  the  latter  was  given  me  that  I 
might  be  conscious  of  possessing  the  former  ?  And  how  do 
these  principles  bear  on  that  great,  I  may  add,  inexplica- 
ble problem,  the  existence  of  evil,  misery,  folly,  imperfec- 
tion, in  the  works  of  an  infinitely  good,  benevolent,  wise, 
perfect  God  ?  May  not  evil  be  the  shade  with  which  good 
is  contrasted,  that  it  may  be  known  as  good,  the  sickness 
to  which  it  is  opposed  as  health,  the  deformity  beside 
which  it  is  shown  forth  as  beauty?  Nay,  may  it  not  be 
affirmed,  on  these  principles,  that  the  plan  of  the  Deity 
would  not  have  been  a  perfect  one  if  it  did  not  include  im- 
perfection, not  a  wise  one  if  it  admitted  not  of  folly,  nor  a 
good  one  if  evil  did  not  form  a  part  of  it  ?  Is  there  not 
something  like  this  implied  in  the  remarkable  text  which 
informs  us  that  the  weakness  of  God  is  mightier  than  the 
strength  of  men,  and  his  foolishness  more  admirable  than 
their  wisdom  ?  Such  was  the  train  of  thought  which  passed 
through  my  mind,  and  the  conclusion  at  which  I  arrived ; 
and  though,  regarded  as  merely  an  intellectual  process,  it 
may,  perhaps,  be  neither  very  striking  nor  of  much  value, 
as  a  matter  which  engaged  my  better  sentiments,  awak- 
ened my  more  pleasing  feelings,  and  afforded  me  for  the 
time  much  happiness,  I  found  it  to  be  valuable  and  truly 
good.  .  .  . 

"  I  had  the  happiness,  a  few  evenings  since,  of  falling  in, 
in  my  usual  walk,  with  our  common  friend,  Miss  Smith, 
accompanied  by  another  young  lady  (by  far  the  most  intel- 
lectual of  her  companions),  and  had  a  long  and  very  amus- 


LETTERS.  337 

ing  conversation  with  them ;  so  long,  indeed,  that  at  length 
the  stars  began  to  peep  out  at  us,  as  if  wondering  what  we 
were  about.  We  differed  and  disputed  and  agreed,  and 
then  differed  and  disputed  and  agreed  again.  TPe,  of  the 
rougher  sex,  arrogate  to  ourselves  the  possession  of  minds 
of  a  larger  size  than  we  admit  to  have  fallen  to  the  share 
of  the  members  of  yours.  True,  indeed,  we  have  not  yet 
thought  proper  to  produce  the  data  on  which  we  found  the 
opinion,  and  are  by  far  too  strong  to  be  compelled  to  it,  but 
should  we  once  seriously  set  about  it,  Cromarty  would 
prove  a  desperate  bad  field  for  us.  By  much  the  greater 
half  of  the  collective  intellect  of  the  town  is  vested  in  the 
ladies." 

Before  our  next  letter  is  written,  the  promised  visit  to 
Miss  D unbar  has  taken  place.  Immediately  on  returning 
to  Cromarty,  Miller  had  written  to  her-,  and  intrusted  the 
letter  to  a  young  lady,  who  lost  it.  This  will  sufficiently 
explain  the  opening  paragraph.  The  rest  needs  no  eluci- 
dation ;  but  I  know  no  letter  of  Miller's  which  does  more 
honor  either  to  his  head  or  his  heart.  The  brotherly  walk 
home  with  the  poor  woman  on  whom  society  had  so  long 
frowned  was  intensely  characteristic  of  Hugh.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  know  how  she  was  impressed  by  her  companion. 

"  CROMARTY,  July  24,   1833. 

"  Only  think  how  unfortunate  I  have  been  !  Your  letter 
reached  Cromarty  on  Sunday  morning,  but  the  poor  fellow 
whose  heart  would  have  leaped  within  him  at  the  sight  of 
it  was  not  there  to  bid  it  welcome.  This  is  now  Wednes- 
day evening,  and  I  have  only  just  got  home  to  the  perusal. 
The  loss  of  my  letter  is  positively  nothing,  —  at  least,  noth- 
ing in  itself ;  but  how  vexatious  it  is  to  me  to  think  for  the 
last  few  days  you  must  have  entertained  hard,  bitter  thoughts 
of  me,  —  I  have  been  careless,  I  have  been  indifferent. 


338  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

But  no  ;  I  will  not  permit  myself  to  believe  that  I  have  suf- 
fered in  your  esteem.  There  is  a  faith  and  charity  of  friend- 
ship as  certainly  as  of  religion  ;  a  faith  that  is  the  evidence 
of  the  good  things  hoped  for,  a  charity  that  believeth  no 
evil ;  and  where  shall  I  look  for  these  if  not  in  you? 

"  I  have,  I  believe,  told  you  that  I  keep  copies  of  the 
letters  I  write  to  all  my  better  and  more  valued  corre- 
spondents,— partly  because^  loving  often  to  peruse  the  let- 
ters I  receive  from  them,  I  have  found  that  when  the  topics 
of  the  passing  moment  had  escaped  my  memory,  my  own 
were  necessary  to  me  to  render  theirs  intelligible ;  partly, 
too,  because  my  letters  furnish  me  with  a  history  of  my 
thoughts,  my  sentiments,  my  feelings ;  in  short,  enable 
me  to  prosecute  the  study  of  that  most  important  of  all  the 
branches  of  philosophy,  —  the  philosophy  of  one's  own  life. 
The  loss  of  my  unfortunate  epistle  is  therefore  virtually 
nothing  but  the  loss  of  a  little  paper  ;  you  shall  have  every 
thought  and  every  word  of  it  in  this  long,  ungainly  sheet. 
Not  that  I  deem  it  at  all  worth  copying,  but  because  what 
I  said  and  felt  when  writing  it  is  exactly  what  I  have  to 
say  and  what  I  feel  now. 

"  Your  truly  welcome  letter  of  the  2d  of  July  found  me 
buried  up  to  my  eyes  amid  books  and  manuscripts,  in  a 
little,  old-fashioned  room  within  which  my  great-grand- 
father, John  Feddes,  passed  his  honeymoon  with  Jean  Gal- 
lie,  in  the  good  year  1698.  I  dare  say  you  remember  the 
story.  He  was  a  sincere  but  not  a  favored  lover,  for  he 
was  poor  and  red-haired,  and  as  ugly  and  awkward  as  his 
great-grandson,  who  is  said  very  much  to  resemble  him ; 
whereas  Jean  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  parish,  and 
nearly  the  richest,  and  she  had,  besides,  the  handsomest 
fellow  in  the  whole  of  it  for  her  lover.  Well,  John  saw  her 
married  to  his  rival,  and  then  went  out  in  a  terrible  passion 
a  buccaneering  to  South  America,  where  he  wreaked  his 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WITCH  SCENE.  339 

disappointment  on  the  poor  Spaniards,  and  filled  a  great 
box  with  doubloons.  On  his  return  to  Cromarty  he  found 
Jean  very  poor  and  a  widow ;  the  man  of  her  choice  had 
been  worthless  and  a  spendthrift,  and  had  only  courted  her 
for  her  money.  John,  who  had  never  ceased  to  love  her, 
liked  her  none  the  worse  for  her  poverty ;  and,  as  she  had 
now  no  lover  but  himself,  she  very  wisely  married  him, 
though  he  was  not  only  as  ugly  and  red-haired  as  ever,  but 
very  much  sunburnt  to  boot.  And  here  they  lived  for 
about  fifty  years,  exceedingly  well  pleased  with  each  other 
to  the  last.  My  room  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  little  one  ;  its 
small,  dull-paned  windows  are  half  buried  in  the  thatch, 
and  there  is  no  getting  in  at  the  door  without  making  a 
very  profound  bow  indeed  ;  and  yet,  little  and  rude  as  it  is, 
John  Fecldes  has  been  as  happy  in  it  as  ever  Caesar  was. 
And  I  have  been  very  happy  in  it  too  ;  never  happier,  how- 
ever, than  when  perusing  your  kind,  kind  letter.  You  know 
I  am  quiet  in  all  my  feelings, —  quiet  in  my  very  enthusiasm  ; 
but  do  not  imagine  that  the  stream  is  as  shallow  as  it  is 
noiseless.  Do  believe  that  there  is  both  depth  and  power 
in  at  least  those  feelings  of  affectionate  gratitude  of  which 
you  yourself  are  the  object. 

"I  had  only  left  you  for  about  half  an  hour,  when  the 
clouds  began  to  lower  on  every  side  of  me,  as  if  sky  and 
earth  were  coming  together,  and  the  rain  to  descend  in  tor- 
rents. The  great  forest  of  Darnaway  appeared  blue  and 
dark,  as  if  greeting  the  heavens  with  a  scowl  as  angry  as 
their  own  ;  and  there  was  a  low,  long  wreath  of  vapor  that 
went  creeping  over  it  like  a  huge  snake.  And  how  the 
wind  did  roar !  I  thought,  with  Lear's  fool,  that  'twas 
truly  '  a  naughty  night  to  swim  in ; '  and  when  taking 
shelter  for  a  few  minutes  under  the  arch  of  a  bridge,  I 
wished  I  could  convert  your  books  and  the  '  Superstitions  ' 
(can  you  forgive  me  a  wish  so  unpoetical?)  into  a  great 


340  THE   JOUBNEYMAN. 

loaf,  and  the  arch  into  one  of  my  Cromarty  caves,  that  I 
might  kindle  a  fire  in  it,  and  take  up  my  lodgings  for  the 
night.  I  wish  you  had  but  seen  the  locale  of  Shakespeare's 
witch  scene,  as  it  frowned  upon  me  in  passing,  with  the  old 
Castle  of  Inshoch,  half  enveloped  in  cloud  and  mist,  stand- 
ing sentry  over  it.  The  black,  dismal  morass,  with  its 
inky  pool  and  its  white  cannacli,  that  showed  like  tears  on 
a  hatchment,  appeared  still  more  black  and  dismal  through 
the  blue-gray  tints  of  the  storm,  and  the  heavily  laden 
clouds  went  rolling  over  it  like  waves  of  the  sea.  And  then 
how  the  firs  waved  to  the  wind,  an'd  the  few  scattered  trees 
swung  their  branches,  and  groaned  and  creaked  ;  the  thun- 
der and  the  witches  were  alone  wanting.  You  see,  my 
dear  madam,  that  though  I  might,  and  would,  certainly 
have  been  happier  in  your  snug-sheltered  parlor  at  Forres 
than  when  exposed  to  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  on  the 
Hard-moor,  my  situation  was  not  quite  without  its  little 
balance  of  advantage.  Bad  as  the  clay  was,  I  would  not 
now  exchange  my  recollection  of  it  for  that  of  many  better 
ones. 

"  I  reached  Fort  George,  dripping  wet,  a  little  before 
three  o'clock,  and  found  among  the  passengers  who  were 
waiting  the  ferry-boat,  a  woman  of  Cromarty, —  a  poor,  dis- 
reputable thing,  who,  by  making  a  false  step  in  early  life, 
lost  caste,  and  drifted,  in  consequence,  almost  beyond  the 
pale  of  society.  We  kept  company  all  the  rest  of  the  way, 
and  had  a  good  deal  of  talk ;  and  I  found,  what,  indeed,  I 
had  often  found  before,  that  human  nature,  even  when  at 
its  worst,  has  always  something  good  in  it.  People  often 
read  the  Scriptures  amiss  on  this  point,  and  think,  despite 
of  an  often-repeated  experience,  that  because  our  species  is 
there  represented  as  thoroughly  separated  from  God,  we 
can  have  no  sincere  regard  for  our  neighbor,  no  true  affec- 
tion for  our  friends,  no  forgiveness  for  our  enemies,  —  no 


STRANGE    TRAVELLING    COMPANION.  341 

love,  no  tenderness,  no  pity.  But  we  have  all  these,  how- 
ever, and  this  from  nature ;  and  these,  and  all  the  other 
feelings  which  draw  us  out  from  ourselves  and  give  us  to 
one  another,  are  good.  Both  tables  of  the  law  were  origi- 
nally set  up  in  the  sanctuary  of  man's  heart.  When  he  fell 
the  first  of  these  was  broken  into  fragments,  which  were 
raked  together  by  guilt  and  terror,  and  formed  into  an  un- 
couth idol  named  Superstition  ;  but  the  second  table,  though 
sorely  rent  and  shattered,  survived  the  concussion,  and, 
with  its  darkened  and  half-dilapidated  inscriptions,  holds 
its  place  in  the  sanctuary  still.  But  this  is  not  quite  what  I 
meant  to  say.  I  found  that  my  fellow-traveller  had  an  old, 
bedridden  mother,  whom  she  labored  to  support ;  that  she 
kept  her  daughter  at  school,  and  that  last  year,  on  the 
breaking  out  of  the  cholera,  when  a  spirit  of  selfishness 
seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  country,  and  no  one  thought 
of  friend  or  neighbor,  she  had  attended  in  his  sickness  a 
relative,  from  whom  she  had  formerly  experienced  some 
little  kindness.  I  have  found  that  what  are  called  the  good 
and  bad  of  our  species  (from  the  circumstance,  surely,  of 
their  having  their  virtues  and  vices  based  on  a  nature  radi- 
cally the  same)  resemble  each  other  much  nearer,  and  have 
much  more  in  common,  than  the  world  chooses  to  allow. 
The  human  God  and  human  monster  of  common  report, 
when  one  comes  in  contact  with  them,  and  is  enabled  to 
balance  all  their  traits  and  qualities,  prove  to  be  nothing 
better  nor  worse  than  mere  men.  For  my  own  part,  I  have 
often  found  the  good,  when  I  became  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  them,  to  be  not  much  better  than  myself,  and  the  bad 
to  be  not  much  worse.  This  may,  perhaps,  be  thought  wild 
doctrine  ;  but  I  know  it  to  be  favorable  to  the  exercise  of 
those  charities  which  bind  us  to  our  species,  and  opposed 
to  that  idolatry  of  our  nature  which  prompts  us  to  prostrate 
ourselves  before  some  poor,  faulty  thing  like  ourselves  ;  and, 


342  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

besides,  did  not  He  act  upon  it,  who,  though  repeatedly 
accused  of  being  the  friend  of  publicans  and  sinners,  never 
once  rebutted  the  charge  ?  I  got  home  about  six  o'clock, 
without  being  nearly  so  much  fatigued  with  my  journey  of 
thirty  miles  as  when  I  had  travelled  it  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion ;  and  my  friends  were  all  as  glad  to  see  me  as  if  I  had 
been  away  from  them  for  a  much  longer  period.  I  am,  I 
believe,  richer  in  true  friends  than  any  other  person  I  know, 
and  my  only  secret  regarding  them  is  the  very  simple  one 
of  being  sincerely  attached  to  them. 

"  I  look  back  on  my  visit  to  Forres  with  great  and  un- 
mixed pleasure.  I  really  love  my  friends,  and,  indeed, 
mankind  in  general,  all  the  better  for  it ;  it  has  added,  too, 
to  the  stock  of  my  ideas,  and  enriched  the  little  mental 
studio,  in  which  I  have  stored  up  my  conceptions  of  the 
good  and  the  beautiful,  with  a  series  of  images  superior  to 
most  of  the  others.  I  have  read  of  a  celebrated  Italian 
master  who  was  so  exclusively  a  painter  of  landscape  that 
he  could  not  so  much  as  introduce  figures  into  his  pieces. 
The  scenes  he  portrayed  seemed  to  be  scenes  of  the  infant 
» world  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  day's  creation,  ere  there  were 
animals  on  the  plains  or  in  the  forests,  or  man  had  become 
a  living  soul.  Now,  this  is  not  at  all  the  way  with  my 
landscapes.  There  are  a  few  figures  in  the  foreground  of 
every  one  of  them,  and  the  same  figures  too.  You  your- 
self I  have  introduced  into  every  scene.  Here  you  stand 
on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  there  on  the  verge  of  a  stream, 
yonder  amid  the  glades  of  a  forest.  Immediately  on  our 
return  from  the  banks  of  the  Findhorn,  I  was  almost  afraid 
that  I  had  visited  them  to  but  little  purpose.  I  had  seen 
so  very  much,  and  my  attention  had  been  so  fatigued,  that 
my  recollection  of  their  many  beautiful  scenes  resembled 
the  reflection  on  a  lake,  whose  surface  is  partially  agitated 
by  the  wind.  My  mind  might  be  compared  to  the  apart- 


HIS   VISIT   TO   FORRES.  343 

ments  of  a  house  that  has  just  been  taken  possession  of  by 
a  new  tenant,  when  the  pieces  of  furniture  lie  higglety  pig- 
glety  on  the  floors,  and  we  marvel  how  they  can  ever  be  so 
arranged  as  to  leave  room  for  anything  else.  But  it  is  not 
so  now.  I  have  now  a  complete  picture  of  the  river,  with 
all  its  rocks  and  its  woods,  its  pools  and  its  rapids,  from 
where  it  sweeps  through  the  meads  of  St.  John  to  where  it 
receives  the  waters  of  the  Devy.  The  picture  is  rolled  up 
in  a  recess  of  my  mind  like  a  web  of  tapestry,  and,  when  I 
but  will  it,  it  unfolds  scene  after  scene,  until  the  whole  is 
spread  out.  See,  there  are  the  meads,  with  the  river  play- 
ing with  us  at  bo-peep, —  now  hiding  itself  among  the 
bushes,  now  looking  out  and  laughing  as  if  at  our  attempts 
to  discover  it ;  and  there  is  the  heronry,  with  the  large, 
gray,  ghost-like  herons  sailing  over  their  nests,  that  look 
like  so  many  lawyers'  wigs  ;  and  yonder  is  the  little,  fairy- 
like  village  of  Sluie,  inhabited,  despite  of  its  beauty,  by 
people  who  have  no  more  poetry  in  them  than  if  they  were 
confined  to  a  hempen  manufactory  and  saw  only  walls  of 
dingy  brick  and  roofs  of  red  tile. 

"  Observe  now  how  suddenly  the  character  of  the  scenery 
has  changed.  We  have  just  left  the  district  of  secondary 
rock  —  of  abrupt,  sandstone  cliffs  and  widely  extended 
meadows  —  for  that  of  gneiss  and  granite;  the  crags  have 
become  more  rugged,  the  banks  more  invariably  precipitous, 
the  river  more  turbulent.  Every  trace  of  the  labor  and 
skill  of  man  has  disappeared  ;  there  are  no  impressions,  not 
even  the  slightest,  on  the  rocks,  the  stream,  or  the  forest, 
of  the  refinement  or  civilization  of  the  present  age.  The 
low  country  is  all  over  stamped  with  these  ;  we  see  them  in 
the  fields,  the  houses,  the  villages,  the  gardens.  Here,  on 
the  contrary,  Nature  is  still  as  much  in  her  infancy  as  when 
the  naked  huntsman  of  two  thousand  years  ago,  his  long 
beard  whistling  to  the  wind,  and  his  breast  and  limbs  stained 


344  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

blue,  and  tattooed  with  rude  figures  of  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  first  broke  through  the  tangled  underwood  as  he  pur- 
sued the  stag,  and  met  the  animal  at  bay  on  the  steep  edge 
of  a  yet  unknown  and  nameless  stream.  But  why  unroll 
the  whole  web  ?  I  cannot  add  to  the  vividness  of  your  im- 
pressions, but  I  can  show  you  the  distinctness  of  my  own. 

"  My  imagination  had  been  busy  for  a  whole  month  be- 
fore I  set  out  for  Forres,  in  drawing  pictures  of  all  I  was 
to  be  there  brought  acquainted  with.  I  had  a  Findhorn  of 
my  own,  and  a  Relugas,  and  a  Churchyard  of  Altyre,  and 
a  Dr.  Brande,  and  a  Mr.  Grant ;  and  now  I  have  both  the 
real  and  the  imaginary  landscapes  and  portraits  placed  side 
by  side,  just  like  the  two  rainbows  we  saw  side  by  side,  a 
bright  and  a  fainter,  when  returning  from  our  excursion. 
But  the  real  and  imaginary  scenes  and  images  are,  in  many 
respects,  strikingly  dissimilar.  You  yourself,  and  you  only, 
are  altogether  what  I  had  conceived.  Previous,  indeed,  to 
our  meeting  at  Forres,  some  parts  of  my  transcript  of  the 
character  were  defined  bv  only  faint  outlines,  and  these  out- 
lines are  now  filled  up  ;  but,  for  the  truth  of  my  general 
conception  of  it,  I  appeal  to  the  letter  I  wrote  you  in  March 
last. 

"  I  shall  not  be  out  of  Cromarty  (if  I  but  live  so  long) 
for  the  next  two  months.  But  why  write  so  hesitatingly  on 
this  subject,  as  if  the  devoting  a  few  days  to  pleasure  and 
to  you,  whatever  my  engagements,  was  to  be  regarded  as  a 
sacrifice  ?  It  is  not  probable  that  I  shall  be  at  all  occupied 
at  the  time  of  your  visit ;  but  had  I  to  travel  fifty  miles  to 
meet  with  you,  or  to  postpone  the  most  pressing  engage- 
ments, the  balance  of  happiness  and  advantage  would  still  be 
largely  on  my  side,  —  and  this,  too,  leaving  gratitude  alto- 
gether out  of  the  question.  I  have  been  of  late  among  my 
rocks  and  woods,  and  have  explored  all  my  caves,  large  and 
small,  together  with  the  burn  of  Eathie. 


MR.    ERASER   AND    MR.    STEWART.  345 

"  Our  sacrament  here  is  just  over.  We  have  had  at 
least  three  splendid  discourses,  —  two  from  Mr.  Fraser, 
Kirkhill,  one  from  Mr.  Stewart.  The  latter  is  the  more 
powerful  man,  the  former  has  the  more  logical  head.  Mr. 
Fraser  is  a  reasoner  only,  and  though  nothing  can  be  clearer 
or  more  conclusive  than  his  arguments,  the  attention  is  apt 
to  be  fatigued  by  a  discourse  altogether  argumentative,  and 
too  long  for  some  relief;  a  sermon  may  thus  be  good  in  all 
its  parts,  and  yet  faulty  as  a  whole.  Mr.  Stewart,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  both  a  reasoner  and  a  poet.  He  narrates,  he 
describes,  he  reasons,  he  illustrates,  with  equal  effect ;  he 
can  sink  into  the  familiar  without  being  mean,  and  rise  into 
the  sublime  almost  without  effort.  In  fine,  Mr.  Fraser  is  a 
limited  monarch,  and  governs  by  the  law ;  we  find  him  con- 
tinually appealing  to  it,  and  to  our  understandings ;  like 
true  Whigs,  we  are  nearly  as  much  his  judges  as  his  sub- 
jects, and  only  submit  to  be  governed  by  him  so  long  as  he 
is  constitutional,  and  can  produce  the  codes  and  precedents 
under  which  he  acts.  Mr.  Stewart,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
despot,  —  we  find  he  can  do  with  us  whatever  he  wills,  and 
are  such  Tories  as  never  to  question  his  right.  As  for  the 
law,  he  can  either  make  a  merit  of  judging  by  it,  or  trans- 
gress it  with  impunity.  Forgive  me  so  brief  and  imperfect 
a  sketch  of  two  of  the  most  talented  clergymen  in  the  north 
of  Scotland.  I  trust  you  have  tendered  my  best  thanks  to 
Mr.  Grant  for  his  elegant  and  truly  excellent  discourse. 
He  carried  me  with  him  from  beginning  to  end.  He  had 
iny  full  assent  to  the  truth  of  all  his  remarks,  and  the  just- 
ness of  all  his  principles,  —  I  felt  all  he  wished  me  to  feel, 
and  saw  all  he  intended  I  should  see. 

"  I  have  regularly  wound  up  my  watch  every  night  since 
I  left  you,  and  have  begun  to  find  out  its  various  uses. 
One  of  these  belongs  to  it  exclusively,  as  an  individual 
watch.  Need  I  point  out  that  one  ?  " 


346  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

Miss  Dunbar  had,  with  much  difficulty,  prevailed  upon 
Miller  to  accept  from  her  the  present  of  a  watch. 

The  following  letter  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  the  "  voluntary 
controversy,"  at  this  time  agitating  Scotland  ;  an  interest- 
ing hint,  also,  of  that  anti-patronage  fervor  which  was  to 
make  Miller  the  champion  of  non-intrusion.  The  sternness 
of  our  friend's  orthodoxy  is  to  be  noted  ;  "  the  Arminian  " 
must  be  driven  from  his  pulpit.  Hugh  Miller  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  Broad  Churchism  in  any  sense. 

"  CROMARTT,  August  15,  1833. 

"  I  was  a  very  few  days  ago  at  MacFarquhar's  Bed  and 
the  gypsies'  cave,  —  the  scene  of  my  '  Boatman's  Tale.' 
About  four  hundred  yards  to  the  west  of  the  Bed  there  is  a 
second  cave,  in  a  corner  so  wild  and  sequestered  that  it  is 
scarcely  visited,  except,  perhaps,  by  myself,  once  in  a 
twelvemonth.  The  sides  and  roof  are  crusted  over  by  green 
mould  and  white  stalactites.  It  reminds  me  of  a  burial 
vault ;  and  I  never  visited  it  alone  and  in  the  evening  with- 
out keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  inhabitants.  It  has 
been  haunted  by  evil  spirits,  it  is  said,  time  immemorial. 
There  is  no  path  to  it,  and  so  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it 
inaccessible ;  besides,  to  visit  it  by  day,  and  with  a  party, 
is  not  at  all  the  way  of  seeing  it.  Twilight  and  solitude, 
and  a  melancholy,  imaginative  mood  can  alone  render  it 
interesting.  Well,  it  is  night ;  the  moon  has  just  risen  out 
of  the  frith,  the  bolder  features  of  the  cliffs  are  partially 
relieved  from  the  gloom  of  the  deeper  recesses,  and  a  level 
stream  of  pale  light  has  entered  the  wide  mouth  of  the 
cavern,  and  falls  on  the  dim,  glimmering  objects .  within. 
See  how  the  dark  roof  arches  over  us,  and  how  the  co- 
lumnar stalactites  of  the  sides  seem  advancing  towards  us  ; 
observe,  too,  how  our  shadows  stretch  inwards  and  mingle 
with  the  darkness !  What  a  theatre  for  the  wild  and  the 


SOCIAL    SOLITUDE.  347 

horrible !  The  floor  is  strewed  over  with  what  seem  the 
fragments  of  human  bones  ;  and  then  that  spectral-look- 
ing object  within,  —  does  it  not  move?  Hear  how  the  deep 
sullen  roar  of  the  sea  awakens  all  the  echoes  of  the  place  till 
they  mutter  from  the  deeper  recesses,  like  the  growling  of 
a  wild  beast,  and  the  wave  seems  calling  over  our  heads ! 
Nay,  draw  nearer  to  me.  I  tremble  like  a  school-boy. 
Surc-ly  these  are  human  bones  scorched  and  blackened  by 
fire,  and  gnawed  by  the  teeth ;  and  look  yonder,  is  not  that 
a  skeleton  reclining  on  the  floor?  See,  the  bony  hand  rests 
on  the  tattered  fragments  of  a  book.  lie  was  the  last  who 
perished ;  and,  oh !  with  what  feelings  must  he  have 
opened  that  book  after  he  had  finished  his  horrible  meal ! 
You  have  now  seen  the  cave,  and  more  ;  but  the  more  I  am 
afraid  you  will  deem  rather  a  nightmare  of  the  imagination 
than  a  dream.  Am  I  not  bound,  however,  to  tell  you  all? 

"  Before  leaving  MacFarquhar's  Bed,  I  had  a  delightful 
bathe  among  the  rocks.  There  was  a  heavy  sea  tumbling 
ashore,  bordering  the  whole  coast  with  a  fringe  of  foam.  I 
shot  out  through  the  surf  and  reached  the  open  sea ;  the 
waves  were  rising  and  falling  around  me ;  at  one  time  I 
sunk  into  the  hollow,  the  hills  and  rocks  disappeared,  and 
I  saw  only  a  valley  of  waters  ;  anon  I  was  lifted  up  on  the 
ridge,  and  laid  my  hand  on  its  white  mane  as  I  looked 
down  on  the  shore.  What  would  you  not  give  to  be  able 
to  swim?  The  exercise  has  its  mischances,  however.  On 
landing  I  was  dashed  against  a  rock,  and  had  to  walk  very 
softly  for  three  days  after,  lest  I  should  be  asked  whether  I 
was  not  lame. 

"Is  it  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  lie,  in  a  fine,  clear  day,  on 
the  sea-beach,  amid  the  round  polished  pebbles  and  the 
pretty  shells,  and  see  through  the  half-shut  eye  the  little 
waves  dancing  to  the  sun,  and  hear,  as  if  we  heard  it  not, 
their  murmur  on  the  shore?  To  be  all  alone,  —  shutout 


843  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

from  the  world,  —  the  wide  ocean  stretching  away  for  many 
a  league  before  us,  and  a  barrier  of  steep  cliffs  towering 
behind.  There  is,  my  dear  madam,  a  kind  of  social  soli- 
tude which  fits  us  for  society  by  training  us  both  to  think 
and  to  feel ;  or  rather,  I  should  say,  in  which  we  are  trained, 
solitude  being  but  the  school,  imagination  and  the  social 
affections  the  teachers.  Let  me  illustrate :  I  lie  all  alone 
on  the  sea-shore,  but  in  imagination  my  friend  is  seated 
beside  me,  and  so  my  thoughts  and  feelings  are  thrown  into 
the  conversational  mould.  My  attention  is  alive  to  what  is 
passing  around  me,  my  memory  active,  my  reasoning  facul- 
ties in  operation,  my  fancy  in  full  play  ;  and  all  this  because 
the  conversation  must  be  kept  up.  And  thus  friendship 
and  solitude  operate  on  my  thoughts,  as  the  waves  operate 
on  the  pebbles  which  lie  in  heaps  around  me.  There  is  a 
continual  action,  a  ceaseless  working,  till  the  rude,  unshapen 
ideas,  like  the  broken  fragments  of  rock,  are  rounded  and 
polished,  and  display  all  their  peculiarities  of  texture,  and 
all  their  shades  of  color. 

"After  all  —  and  I  speak  from  experience  —  contro- 
versy, though  often  a  necessary  evil,  is  invariably  a  great 
one.  Never  in  all  my  life  did  I  sin  so  grievously  against 
my  neighbor  and  my  own  better  feelings,  as  when  battling 
about  two  years  ago  for  my  towns-folks  and  myself  in  the 
.affair  of  the  chapel,  and  this,  though  my  own  conscience, 
and  the  best  people  I  knew,  assured  me  I  was  in  the 
right 

"  You  must  surely  have  admired,  in  the  c  Paradise  Lost/ 
that  expansiveness  of  moral  prospect  (if  I  may  so  speak) 
which  the  poet  has  spread  out  before  his  readers.  The 
work  resembles  a  lofty  range  of  terraces  rising  one  above 
the  other,  and  the  grand  object  to  be  contemplated  from 
each  of  these  is  the  Fall.  In  our  ascent  upwards  we  first 
use  the  terrace  of  human  nature,  and  turn  towards  the 


THE  VOLUNTARY  CONTROVERSY.         349 

object.  It  is  too  near,  and  too  much  on  a  level  with  us,  to 
be  descried  other  than  imperfectly.  We  see  it  only  as  a 
thing  of  sin  and  suffering  originating  in  a  sceptical  disobe- 
dience and  the  wild  impulses  of  a  blind  desire.  We  ascend 
to  the  second  terrace  (it  is  the  place  of  the  fiends) ,  and  look 
down  ;  the  object  appears  in  a  clearer  light,  —  we  see  it  as 
the  result  of  deep,  crooked  design  and  a  malice  as  artful  as 
profound.  We  then  ascend,  to  the  top  eminence;  it  is 
occupied  by  the  throne  of  Deity ;  the  prospect  spreads  out 
before  us  in  all  its  completeness.  We  see  the  blind  impulse 
destined  and  directed  by  an  unerring  agent,  —  the  little 
crooked  design  forming  part  of  a  plan  as  extensive  as  'tis 
faultless,  —  infinite  wisdom  making  use  of  folly  as  one  of 
its  means,  and  infinite  goodness  effecting  its  purposes  by 
hatred  and  malevolence.  But  what,  you  ask,  is  all  this  to 
the  purpose  ?  Much.  Let  us  try  whether  we  cannot  ascend 
the  several  terraces,  and  catch  a  glimpse  from  each  of  them 
of  the  question  now  agitating  the  Church.  From  the  first 
we  see  a  scene  of  contention  and  uproar ;  much  good  feel- 
ing lost  and  much  bad  argument  found  ;  the  Christian  sunk 
in  the  politician,  and  the  peace  of  the  Gospel  swallowed  up 
amid  the  dissensions  of  the  Churches.  We  reach  the 
second  terrace,  and  the  view  begins  to  open.  We  see  in 
both  parties  the  good  and  the  bad  linked  together  by  a 
common  cause,  and  grown  careless  of  that  only  true  and 
legitimate  distinction  which  had  hitherto  held  them  apart ; 
we  see  the  infidel  and  the  Christian  dissenter  united  on  the 
one  side,  the  cold-blooded  hireling  and  the  useful  minister 
on  the  other.  Could  the  old  deceiver  have  fallen  on  a  more 
ingenious  stratagem  for  neutralizing  the  effects  of  Chris- 
tianity than  this  of  binding  together  the  dead  and  the  liv- 
ing? Let  us  now  ascend,  but  with  becoming  reverence,  the 
summit  of  the  eminence.  The  view  expands ;  we  see  that 
the  effervescence  below,  however  unconscious  the  discordant 


350  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

- 

elements  which  produce  it,  is  tending  to  good,  —  to  the 
purification  of  an  excellent  and  venerable  Church,  which, 
however,  like  that  of  Pergamos,  has  its  '  few  things '  that  are 
evil.  The  whole  structure  is  assailed,  and  the  unsolid  parts 
of  it  must  fall.  The  good,  not  the  wealthy  or  titled,  must 
choose  its  teachers,  —  the  hireling  must  resign  his  stipend, 
the  Arrninian  quit  his  pulpit. 

"  In  copying  for  me  you  cannot,  as  you  truly  observe, 
go  far  wrong.  Our  tastes  may,  perhaps,  vary  in  some  of 
their  ,decisions,  but  they  are  evidently  of  the  same  family. 
Collins'  beautiful  Ode  on  the  Superstitions  of  the  High- 
lands I  have  seen,  but  not  for  the  last  ten  years.  I  wished 
much  for  a  copy  of  it  when  selecting  matters  for  my  Tradi- 
tions ;  and  I  have  still  a  volume  of  these  to  write ;  but 
really  I  must  not  put  you  to  the  drudgery  of  copying  ;  it  is 
worse  than  being  chained  at  the  oar.  Tell  Miss  Grant 
how  much  I  long  to  see  her  in  Cromarty.  If  you  visit  me 
in  my  little  room  (I  am  not  quite  so  nice  on  this  point  as 
cannie  Elshy),  she,  I  trust,  will  accompany  you;  and  that 
you  may  see  it  in  all  its  glorious  confusion,  I  shall  neither 
arrange  the  books  nor  mend  the  broken  pane.  Eemember, 
'tis  I  alone  who  am  to  be  your  Caliban  during  your  stay  in 
'  the  island.' 

"  '  I'll  show  thee  the  best  springs  ;  I'll  pluck  thee  berries; 
I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
And  I,  with  my  long  nails,  will  dig  thee  pignuts. 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? ' " 

"  CROMARTY,  Oct.  29,  1833. 

"  The  night  has  fallen,  —  a  still,  dreamy  sort  of  night, 
faintly  lighted  up  by  the  moon.  About  half  an  hour  ago  I 
was  out  among  the  woods  ;  they  were  gloomy  and  ghostly, 
for  twilight  had  begun  to  darken,  and  the  trees  are  all  in 
their  winding-sheets  of  red  or  yellow,  except  where,  in  the 


A   NIGHT-WALK.  351 

more  exposed  corners  of  the  wood,  they  stand  like  so  many 
naked  skeletons,  stretching  their  bare,  meagre  arms  towards 
the  sky.  I  was  in  a  rather  low  mood  before  going  ont,  and 
there  is  little  chance  of  one's  recovering  one's  spirits  by 
walking  through  a  decaying  wood  in  a  cloudy  evening  of 
autumn.  Mine  sunk  miserably.  B  I  remember  that,  some 
twelve  years  ago,  I  used  often  to  wish  that  I  could  retire 
from  the  world  altogether.  I  would  have  fain  built  myself 
a  little  rustic  hut  in  the  most  secluded  recess  of  some  lonely 
valley,  or  in  the  depths  of  some  solitary  wood,  or  under 
the  uninhabited  precipices  of  some  uninhabited  shore  ;  and 
in  that  hut  would  I  have  amused  myself,  as  I  fondly 
thought,  with  my  books,  and  my  pencil,  and  my  pen ;  in 
digging  my  little  garden  and  tending  my  few  goats.  I 
have  pictured  to  nr^self  the  snugness  and  comfort  of  my 
little  apartment  in  some  boisterous  nighj  of  winter,  when 
the  winds  would  be  howling  over  my  roof  and  the  rains 
pattering  on  my  casement,  —  trees  creaking,  streams  dash- 
ing, waves  roaring,  and  the  whole  heavens  and  the  whole 
earth  a  scene  of  uproar  and  contention.  Within  all  would 
be  quietness,  except  that  the  flame  would  be  rattling  in  the 
chimney,  —  throwing  its  cheerful  reflection  on  my  stool, 
my  table,  my  little  cupboard,  my  few  books,  and  my  bed. 
Every  season  was  to  have  its  own  peculiar  pleasures  for  me, 
and  its  own  particular  study :  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
the  wisdom  of  the  poet,  the  workings  of  my  own  mind, — 
each,  all,  of  these,  were  to  furnish  me  with  employment. 
And  thus  I  was  to  spend  my  days,  until  at  length  death, 
no  very  unwelcome  visitor,  would  call  in  upon  me,  and  my 
cabin  would  become  my  grave.  Such  was  the  dream  of  the 
kov?  —  of  one  who  had  but  just  begun  to  know  life  as  it 
presents  itself  to  the  children  of  poverty  and  labor,  and 
who  was  not  aware  that  the  irrational  and  inanimate 
worlds  are  much  less  interesting  objects  of  study  than  the 


352  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

world  of  men ;  or  that,  by  retiring  into  one's  own  mind, 
one  may  become  more  completely  a  hermit  than  by  retiring 
into  a  desert.  I  was  employed  in  thinking  of  all  this  in  my 
walk  to-night ;  in  calling  up  the  various  circumstances  of 
my  dream,  and  in  feeling,  from  an  experience  not  a  little 
strengthened  by  the  depression  of  the  moment,  how  very 
fallacious  its  promise  of  happiness.  The  best  and  strong- 
est-minded of  us,  my  dear  madam,  cannot  always  be  happy 
in  our  own  resources  alone.  We  have  all  of  us  our  hours 
and  clays  of  languor  and  melancholy,  when  we  must  look 
without  ourselves  for  comfort.  Seldom  have  I  felt  this 
more  strongly  than  to-night,  and  never  have  I  felt  it  with- 
out thinking  gratefully  and  tenderly  of  my  friend.  I  quit- 
ted the  wood  with  its  mournful-looking  trees,  and  its  heaps 
of  withered  leaves,  and  came  home  to  write  to  you.  .  .  . 
u  It  seems  Allan  Cunningham,  the  Galloway  stone- 
mason, is  engaged  at  present  in  preparing  a  new  edition  of 
Burns,  with  a  memoir.  He  is  desirous  of  procuring  all  the 
unpublished  information  which  still  exists  regarding  him, 
and  as  I  once  chanced  to  mention  to  Mr.  Carruthers,  with 
whom  Cunningham  is  intimate,  that  the  Mr.  Russel  whom 
the  poet  has  brought  so  often  and  so  conspicuously  forward 
in  his  satirical  poems,  resided  for  several  years  as  a  school- 
master in  Cromarty,  I  was  now  applied  to  for  all  of  his  his- 
tory I  could  glean  from  tradition.  I  wrote  as  requested, 

and  produced  a  letter  interesting  for  its  facts 

They  may  serve  to  show  that  Burns,  in  his  quarrels  with 
the  evangelical  clergy,  might  possibly  have  been  less 
piqued  with  what  was  good  in  their  religion  than  with 
what  was  bad  in  some  of  themselves,  —  an  opinion  not  gen- 
erally entertained  ;  and  that  his  stinging  sarcasms  were  no 
chance  arrows  sent  from  a  bow  drawn  at  a  venture,  but 
true  to  character  and  fact.  The  descriptions  of  Russel  in 


COUSIN   WALTER.  353 

the  satires,  with  the  anecdotes  of  the  latter  which  I  have 
been  able  to  collect,  piece  completely  into  one  character. 

u  I  am  at  present  employed  in  the  church-yard,  and 
busily  employed  too,  —  for  you  must  not  suppose  that  I 
am  always  as  idle  as  when  you  were  here  ;  on  the  contrary, 
there  is  perhaps  scarcely  a  less  indolent  man  in  the  country- 
side ;  though  I  love  dearly  to  have  the  choosing  of  my  own 
employment,  and  could  never  yet  submit  to  be  converted 
into  a  mere  machine.  I  have  at  times,  for  weeks  together, 
been  performing  the  labor  of  almost  two  men,  —  writing 
nearly  as  much  as  men  who  only  write,  and  hewing  as  much 
as  men  who  only  hew ;  but  were  the  writing  or  hewing 
either  to  be  imposed  on  me  as  a  task,  I  would  be  misera- 
ble." 

"CROMARTY,  December  16,  1833. 

"  I  have  been  low-spirited  and  unhappy.  You  remember 
the  fine-looking  young  man,  a  cousin  of  mine,  that  Miss 
Reid  pointed  out  to  you  when  you  were  in  Cromarty  two 
years  ago  ?  He  is  dead.  At  the  time  I  was  enjoying  so 
much  in  your  company  at  Nigg,  he  was  lying  on  a  bed  of 
sickness  in  a  foreign  land,  with  neither  friend  nor  relative 
to  smooth  his  pillow  or  speak  him  comfort.  Poor  Walter  ! 
His  story  is  a  melancholy  one  !  He  was  long  attached  to  a 
young  girl  of  Cromarty,  and  in  forming  his  little  scheme 
of  future  happiness  he  had  laid  down  his  union  with  her  as 
its  very  ground-work ;  but  seeing,  from  the  miserable  de- 
pression of  trade,  little  chance  of  providing  for  her  in  this 
country,  he  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  the  hope  that  his  exer- 
tions would  secure  for  him  in  America  what  they  had 
failed  in  procuring  for  him  here.  Alas,  he  has  found  only 
a  grave  !  Poor  fellow  !  He  had  a  kind,  warm  heart,  and 
all  his  acquaintances  here  regret  him  sincerely ;  what  may 
not  I?  We  grew  up  together  from  our  mutual  childhood 
as  playmates  and  companions ;  and  though  for  the  last 


354  THE    JOURNEYMAN". 

twelve  years  we  were  less  in  each  other's  company,  for  our 
pursuits  were  different,  and  mine  led  me  to  be  much  alone, 
we  still  continued  to  love  and  respect  each  other.  You 
remember  his  appearance.  He  was  a  well-built  man  of  six 
feet,  but  from  his  being  so  justly  porportioned  he  did  not 
seem  so  tall ;  he  had  an  iron  constitution  and  great  bodily 
strength,  and  when  in  Cromarty  he  used  to  expose  himself 
with  impunity  to  all  the  various  hardships  which,  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  spirited  young  men  sometimes  subject 
themselves  to  in  quest  of  amusement.  He  has  lain,  in  the 
season  of  the  herring  fishery,  night  after  night,  in  an  open 
boat  on  the  Moray  Frith,  and  watched  with  his  gun  for 
hours  together,  in  the  severest  weather,  for  the  otter  and 
cormorant.  Confiding  in  this  strength  of  constitution 
without  taking  into  account  the  difference  of  climate,  he 
seems  to  have  exposed  himself  in  the  same  way  among  the 
woods  and  rivers  of  America.  In  crossing  in  a  small  ves- 
sel, late  in  September,  one  of  the  great  lakes,  he  impru- 
dently slept  on  deck  during  the  night,  and  on  landing  was 
seized  by  a  fever,  which  carried  him  off  in  about  ten  days. 
You  will  forgive  me  for  dwelling  so  much  on  so  melancholy 
a  subject.  I  cannot  get  the  poor  fellow  out  of  my  sight. 

"  There  are  a  few  brief  passages  in  his  history  that  I 
know  would  interest  you,  were  I  but  in  the  mood  of  telling 
them.  About  four  years  ago,  when  engaged  in  writing  my 
letters  on  the  herring  fishery,  I  went  out  with  him  in  a 
little  boat  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  the  various  phe- 
nomena of  the  frith,  and  rowed  about  twenty  miles  into 
the  open  sea.  There  came  on  a  dismal  night  of  wind  and 
rain,  and  when,  after  folding  myself  in  the  sail,  I  had  lain 
down  and  fallen  asleep,  the  tossing  of  the  boat  was  such 
that  my  covering  was  unrolled,  fold  after  fold,  until  at 
length  I  lay  exposed  to  the  showers  and  the  spray.  I  was 
awakened  about  midnight  by  Walter  wrapping-  me  up  as 


COUSIN   WALTER.  355 

carefully  as  a  mother  would  her  child,  and  heard  him  re- 
mark to  one  of  our  companions  that,  come  of  himself  what 
might,  he  could  not  see  Cousin  Miller  lie  catching  his  death 
in  that  way.  '  The  pnir  chiclcl,'  he  added,  '  is  better  at  twa 
three  things  than  at  taking  care  o'  himselV  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  often  I  think  of  this  incident,  or  how  very  painful 
the  reflection  that  there  should  be  no  one  to  bestow  on  him 
the  care  and  attention  which  he  could  so  lavish  on  another. 

"  Some  eight  years  ago  he  resided  for  a  twelvemonth  or 
two  in  Edinburgh.  There  was  a  sister  of  his  father's  who 
had  married  and  settled  in  Ayrshire  well-nigh  thirty  years 
before,  and  between  whom  and  her  relatives  in  the  north 
country  there  had  been  little  intercourse  from  that  period. 
Walter,  however,  had  often  heard  of  his  aunt,  and  that  in 
disposition,  especially  in  her  attachment  to  her  friends,  she 
very  much  resembled  himself;  and  so,  setting  out  from 
Edinburgh,  he  walked  nearly  a  hundred  miles  to  pay  her  a 
visit.  He  reached  the  village  in  which  she  resided  on  the 
evening  of  the  second  day,  and,  on  being  shown  her  house, 
introduced  himself  to  her  as  a  person  from  Cromarty,  who 
had  lately  seen  her  brother.  She  started  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  '  Can  it  be  possible,'  she  asked,  '  that  you  are  a 
son  of  his?'  Walter  smiled,  and  clasping  her  hand  in  both 
his,  '  I  have  taken  a  long  walk,'  he  said,  'just  to  see  you, 
and  get  acquainted  with  my  cousins  and  your  husband.' 
The  poor  woman  was  affected  to  tears. 

"  A  fine-looking  young  woman,  one  of  her  daughters, 
entered  the  apartment.  '  Come  here,  Jessie,'  said  the 
aunt,  '  and  see  your  cousin,  whose  kind  heart  has  brought 
him  all  the  way  from  the  north  country  to  his  friends  in 
Ayrshire.'  Some  one  cried  out  in  the  -next  room  :  4  Bring 
me  to  him,  too,  mother/  It  was  a  poor  little  girl  who  had 
been  confined  for  years  to  her  bed  by  an  affection  of  the 
spine.  Walter  had  to  sit  beside  her,  and  look  over  all  her 


856  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

playthings  ;  and  when  lie  was  going  to  rise  she  locked  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  held  him  fast  till  she  fell  asleep. 

"  A  few  days  after  he  was  invited  with  his  Cousin  Jessie 
to  a  country  ball.  Jessie,  though  attached  to  another  to 
Y/liom  she  was  married  shortly  after,  was  yet  as  proud  of 
him  as  if  he  were  her  lover.  She  introduced  him  to  her 
little  circle  of  friends,  young  women  like  herself;  and  Wal- 
ter, who  danced  par  excellence,  and  was  a  thorough  adept  in 
all  the  little  arts  of  gallantry,  was  quite  the  Adonis  of  the 
evening.  Some  of  the  lads  of  the  place,  however,  who 
were  but  ill  pleased  to  see  the  handsome  young  man  of  the 
north  more  a  favorite  with  their  sweethearts  than  themselves, 
and  carrying  away  all  the  luck  of  the  ball,  contrived  to 
fasten  a  quarrel  on  him,  and  Walter,  who  was  quite  as 
ready  in  meeting  an  enemy  as  a  friend,  knocked  one  of 
them  clown.  This  took  place  in  a  kind  of  ante-room.  In 
an  instant  he  was  attacked  by  four  of  the  party  at  once,  but 
leaping  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  where  he  could  keep 
them  abreast  of  him,  he  found  abundant  employment  for 
them  all.  I  have  never  seen  in  a  human  arm  so  immense  a 
structure  of  bone  and  sinew ;  his  wrist  used  to  remind  me 
of  the  lower  part  of  a  horse's  leg.  He  was  fighting  on  at 
least  equal  terms  with  the  four,  when  the  sweetheart,  of 
Jessie,  an  active  young  fellow,  drawn  to  the  place  by  the 
noise  of  the  fray,  took  part  with  him,  and  turned  the  tide 
in  a  twinkling.  Ever  after  this  night  his  cousins  used  to 
regard  him  as  quite  a  prodigy.  On  the  day  he  parted  from 
them  the  poor  little  sick  girl  cried  herself  into  a  fever  ;  and 
his  aunt,  ere  she  could  take  leave  of  him,  walked  with  him 
for  more  than  six  miles,  standing  every  few  paces  to  bid 
him  farewell,  and  then  losing  heart  and  going  on  a  little 
further.  Does  not  all  this  give  you  the  idea  of  a  man  whom 
one  could  love  very  much  ?  " 

The  rest  of   the  letter  is  occupied  chiefly  with  details 


HIS   FEELING    OF   INDEPENDENCE.  357 

respecting  Cousin  Walter,  which  are  given  in  the  "  Schools 
and  Schoolmasters,"  one  or  two  being  added,  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  quote.  Miller  says  that  Walter  was,  like 
himself,  "  a  Whig  in  principle,  and  a  Tory  in  feeling,  —  a 
Tory,  at  least,  as  far  as  a  profound  respect  for  the  great  and 
the  venerable  can  constitute  one  such."  It  is  important  to 
have  this  description  of  his  relation  to  Whigism  on  the  one 
hand,  and  to  Toryism  on  the  other,  in  his  own  words.  It 
exactly  corresponds  to  the  fact. 

He  refers  in  the  same  letter  to  an  offer  of  pecuniary  as- 
sistance which  Miss  Dunbar  has  made  him,  with  the  same 
object  as  that  of  Miss  Fraser.  He  firmly  declines  to  accept 
it ;  but,  with  chivalrous  delicacy  of  feeling,  half  confesses 
that  he  may  be  carrying  his  assertion  of  independence  too 
far,  and  begs  her  to  pardon  him  the  excess  of  a  virtue  to 
which  he  has  owed  much.  "  '  It  is  not  given  to  man,'  says 
your  favorite  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  c  to  rest  in  the  proper 
medium.'  And  why?  Because  in  the  nature  of  things  the 
principle  that  holds  us  aloof  from  one  class  of  derelictions 
tends  to  precipitate  us  on  another.  We  stand  within  a 
circle  the  whole  circumference  of  which  is  evil,  and  cannot 
recede  from  any  one  point  in  it  without  approaching  nearer 
to  some  other  point.  And  if,  in  this  way,  the  spirit  which 
has  been  bestowed  upon  me  to  preserve  me  from  all  the 
little  meannesses  of  solicitation,  and  to  secure  to  me  in  my 
humble  sphere  that  feeling  of  self-respect,  without  which  no 
one  can  fulfil  the  duties  of  a  man,  or  deserve  the  respect  of 
others,  should  at  times  impel  me  towards  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, and  make  me  in  some  little  degree  jealous  of  even 
the  kindness  of  a  friend,  will  you  not  tolerate  in  me  a 
weakness  so  necessarily,  so  inseparably  connected  with  that 
species  of  strength  which  renders  me,  if  anything  does,  in 
some  measure  worthy  your  friendship  ?  " 

Last  of  all,  he  glances  at  Cromarty  politics,  declaring 


358  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

that  he  had  narrowly  escaped  being  made  a  Councillor  in  a 
late  Burgh  election,  and  had  "  fought  as  hard  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  preferment  as  most  of  his  towns-people  did  to 
get  in  its  way."  Thus  ends  a  letter  as  long  as  an  ordinary 
essay.  Before  despatching  his  next  to  Miss  Dunbar,  he 
has  learned  from  her  that  she  is  suffering  under  dangerous 
illness. 

"  CROMARTY,  January  10,  1834. 

"  The  feelings  with  "which  I  perused  your  last  letter  were 
of  a  very  different  nature  from  those  ever  imparted  to  me 
by  any  of  your  former  ones.  Would  that  I  could  lighten 
you  of  but  half  your  burden  !  But,  alas  (how  poor  and  in- 
sufficient are  the  friendships  of  earth)  !  There  are  evils  in 
which  there  can  be  no  co-partners.  How  frequently  do  our 
better  feelings  seem  bestowed  upon  us  merely  to  teach  us 
how  very  weak  we  are  ;  and  how  little  else  may  it  be  in  our 
power  to  give  to  those  to  whom  we  have  already  given  our 
best  affections.  It  is  well,  however,  that  there  is  one  Friend 
who,  more  sincerely  such  than  any  other,  is  infinitely  more 
powerful  too.  He  is  willing  to  bestow  every  good  upon  us, 
and  quite  as  able  as  he  is  willing. 

"  You  are  going  to  Edinburgh,  and  will,  I  trust,  soon 
return  in  stronger  health  and  with  brighter  prospects.  Do 
not  suffer  your  spirits  to  droop.  Regard  the  past  as  an 
earnest  of  the  future,  and  cherish  the  invigorating  hope  that 
there  may  be  yet  many  years  of  life  and  happiness  before 
you.  But  there  is  a  hope  better  and  surer  and  more  invig- 
orating still,  that  you  do  well  to  cherish.  How  cheering  it 
is  that  our  present  little  day,  with  its  clouds  and  its  storms 
and  its  momentary  gleams  of  brief  and  imperfect  sunshine, 
with  its  chill  and  troubled  evening  and  its  long  and  gloomy 
night,  is  but  the  prelude  to  a  day  placid  and  unchanging, 
in  which  our  sun  shall  never  be  clouded  and  never  go  down  ! 
The  more  my  experience  of  life  and  of  man,  the  deeper  my 


CHRISTIANITY    AND    HUMAN   NATURE.  359 

conviction  of  the  truth  of  Christianity.  It  is  so  entirely 
fitted  to  our  nature  and  to  our  wants.  I  do  not  think  it 
possible  for  us  to  form  a  thorough  attachment  to  any  except 
individuals  of  our  own  species  ;  —  we  may  have  some  little 
regard  for  inferior  natures,  and  may  bow  before  a  superior 
with  awe  and  adoration ;  but  it  is  on  a  human  breast  only 
that  we  can,  as  it  were,  rest  our  whole  souls  ;  and  what 
but  human  sympathies  alone  can  meet  and  mingle  with 
ours  !  The  deist  may  bend  before  his  God,  but  can  he  for 
a  moment  entertain  the  thought  that  there  is  aught  of 
amity  in  the  feeling  with  which  he  looks  upwards,  and  the 
feeling  with  which  that  imaginary  being  looks  down?  He' 
did  not  '  know  what  was  in  man '  who  first  made  such  a 
religion.  How  well  it  is  for  us  that  there  is  so  complete  an 
adaptation,  in  this  respect,  between  our  nature  and  the 
nature  of  Him  in  whom  we  believe ;  that  He  whom  we 
worship  as  God  is  also  man,  one  whose  tears  burst  out  over 
the  grave  of  a  dead  friend,  and  whose  bosom  supported  the 
head  of  a  living  one  ;  one  who  has  endured  sorrow  and  suf- 
fered pain ;  one  who  was  born  like  ourselves,  feared  death 
as  we  fear  it,  and  died  as  certainly  as  we  must  die  !  God 
grant,  my  clear  madam,  that  we  may  have  Him  for  our  com- 
mon friend  !  He  loves  us  much  better  that  we  can  love  one 
another,  and  can  sympathize  with  us  more  sincerely.  But 
He  can  do  more  than  love  and  xsympathize,  and  we  cannot. 
He  can  comfort  and  heal.  The  man  who  wept  over  the 
tomb  of  Lazarus,  commanded  as  God  that  Lazarus  should 
come  forth,  and  the  dead  came.  I  know  you  will  not  be 
offended  with  me  for  indulging  in  this  mood ;  I  am  light- 
hearted  and  foolish,  and  indulge  in  it  too  seldom  ;  and  }^et 
there  is  surely  nothing  which  should  be  so  conducive  to 
lightness  of  heart  as  the  truths  on  which  it  dwells. 

"  When  last  in  the  parish  of  Nigg  with  John  (Swanson), 
we  ascended  together  the  eminence  from  whence,  two  short 


360  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

months  before,  I  bad  the  pleasure,  in  your  company,  of 
looking  over  so  wide  and  diversified  a  prospect.  But  oh, 
what  a  melancholy  change  has  that  brief  period  produced  ! 
You  remember  how  the  distant  mountain  seemed  melting 
into  the  sky,  and  of  a  hue  scarcely  less  transparent ;  how 
the  patches  of  wood  on  the  range  of  hills  which  rise  towards 
the  north,  touched,  and  but  barely  touched,  by  the  Midas- 
like  hand  of  Autumn,  seemed  so  many  pieces  of  embroid- 
ery on  a  ground  of  purple ;  how  the  Frith  of  Cromarty 
lay  in  all  its  extent  before  us,  —  a  huge  mirror,  over  which 
two  little  silvery  clouds  were  coquetting  with  their  own 
shadows ;  how  the  mirror  frame  on  either  side  was  em- 
bossed with  trees  and  fields  and  villages,  —  all  enveloped  in 
brightness  and  beauty  ;  how  the  distant  friths  and  the  great 
sea  beyond  were  sleeping  beside  their  shores,  as  if,  having 
sworn  an  eternal  peace  with  them,  they  were  soliciting  con- 
fidence by  showing  how  much  they  trusted  ;  and  how  even 
the  very  rocks  themselves,  bold  and  rugged  and  abrupt  as 
they  are  at  all  times,  were  so  colored  by  the  season,  and  so 
relieved  by  the  sunshine,  that  their  very  savageness  seemed 
but  a  sterner  beauty  !  But  why  all  this  ?  A  single  recol- 
lection will  do  more  for  you  than  fifty  such  descriptions. 
You  remember,  then,  that  the  scene  was  one  of  the  most 
pleasing,  —  beautiful  in  all  its  parts,  —  sublime  as  a  whole. 
When  I  last  gazed  on  it  I  deemed  it  one  of  the  dreariest  I  ever 
saw.  All  the  higher  grounds  were  covered  with  snow  or 
enveloped  in  cloud  ;  all  the  lower  were  dark  as  the  surface 
of  a  morass.  The  woods,  brown  and  sombre,  seemed  like 
the  dark  spots  on  the  face  of  the  moon,  so  many  cavities 
scooped  out  of  the  sides  of  the  hills.  The  sky  was  of  a 
dull,  leaden  hue  ;  the  sea  of  a  color  approaching  to  black, 
except  where  edged  along  the  shores  with  a  broad  fringe  of 
foam.  I  could  think  of  it  only  as  a  huge  monster  stretching 
its  immense  arms  into  the  bowels  of  the  land,  and  could 


FRIENDSHIP   APPRECIATED.  861 

liken  it  only  to  the  Brahminical  hieroglyphs  of  the  terrible 
man-lion  starting  from  its  column,  and  tearing  to  pieces  the 
blaspheming  prince.  Was  not  the  scene  a  gloomy  one?  I 
did  not  then  know  you  were  unwell,  or  the  contrast  would 
have  struck  me  still  more  forcibly.  Your  letter  has  tinged 
all  my  thoughts  with  sadness." 

"  CROMARTT,  Feb.  14,  1834. 

"  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  never  yet  received  a  more 
truly  welcome  letter  than  your  last;* the  very  handwriting 
on  the  cover  was  worth  a  whole  file  of  ordinary  epistles. 
I  trust  I  am  not  too  sanguine  when  I  anticipate  for  you 
many  happy  days  in  the  future,  days  in  which  you  will  live, 
as  in  the  past,  not  more  for  yourself  than  for  your  friends, 
and  in  which,  enjoying  all  that  is  truly  good  in  the  present 
world,  you  will  only  occasionally  be  reminded  that  physical 
like  moral  evil  has  a  tendency  to  destroy  itself,  and  that 
there  is  a  world  in  which  evil,  either  physical  or  moral,  can 
have  no  place.  I  often  think  of  the  truly  noble  sentiment 
expressed  in  your  letter  of  the  8th  January,  and  fully  acqui- 
esce in  it.  No  one  can  think  aright  of  the  weakness  of  our 
nature,  without  seeing  that  there  is  much  to  fear  ;  but  then 
no  one,  on  the  other  hand,  can  believe  in  the  goodness  of 
the  Almighty  without  feeling  that  there  is  much  also  to 
hope. 

"  What  shall  I  say  of  the  warm  interest  you  continue  to 
take  in  the  fate  of  my  luckless  History  ?  nay,  rather,  what 
can  I  say  when  I  think  that  that  interest  should  be  mani- 
fested at  such  a  time  ?  This  much  at  least,  that  those  phi- 
losophers who  resolve  all  our  affections  into  a  principle  of 
selfishness  must  have  had  little  experience  of  true  friend- 
ship. I  am  afraid  you  will  render  me  quite  a  bankrupt  by 
your  kindnesses,  that  my  gratitude  will  never  be  able  to 
keep  pace  with  them.  Sir  Thomas  too!  Whatever  my 


362  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

fate  may  be  in  the  future,  it  is  not  likely  I  shall  ever  forget 
that  a  gentleman  so  high  in  the  political  and  literary  world 
should  have  so  honored  me  with  his  notice,  and  so  inter- 
ested himself  in  my  behalf.  So  far,  at  least,  as  you  and  he 
are  concerned,  I  find  that  my  pride  and  my  gratitude  are 
mixed  up  into  one  sentiment ;  and  though  the  better  feel- 
ing is  perhaps  less  pure  in  consequence  of  the  alloy,  it 
will,  like  everything  else  of  value  that  is  hardened  by  a  baser 
mixture,  be  rendered  all  the  more  indestructible  by  it. 

"  I  am  engaged  as  busily  at  present  with  my  second  vol- 
ume as  if  my  first  had  already  passed  into  a  third  edition, 
and  I  have  got  the  larger  half  of  it  written,  but  in  a  style 
so  like  that  of  the  former,  that  if  the  one  sink,  the  other  can 
have  no  chance  of  rising.  I  am  not  without  hope  of  becom- 
ing a  more  skilful  writer  than  I  am  at  the  present,  but  it 
must  be  in  some  department  of  literature  in  which  I  can 
employ  my  mind  more  than  in  my  present  walk.  I  often 
find  it  too  narrow  for  me,  and  that,  while  I  am  gossiping 
over  my  old-wife  stories,  and  dressing  up  little  ideas  in 
very  common  language,  my  more  vigorous  powers  are 
standing  idly  by,  perhaps  pining  away  for  lack  of  exercise. 
But  I  must  complete  the  work  at  all  risks,  were  it  but  for 
the  sake  of  poor  Cromarty,  before  I  take  up  anything 
else.  I  am  no  hypocrite  in  literature,  but  an  honest,  right- 
hearted  devotee,  to  whom  composition  is  quite  its  own 
reward  ;  and  truly  it  would  need.  How  many  of  my  chap- 
ters, think  you,  will  Professor  Wilson  read?  Some  of' 
them  are  mortally  heavy,  and  should  he  stumble  on  two  or 
three  of  these,  alas  for  my  Traditions  ! 

"  The  story  of  the  shipwreck  to  which  you  allude  is  a 
truly  affecting  one,  but  you  are  only  partially  acquainted 
with  the  circumstances  which  render  it  such.  The  master 
was  a  fine  young  fellow  barely  turned  of  nineteen,  who  had 
just  been  promoted  to  the  charge,  and  who,  on  quitting  har- 


A    STORY    OF    SHIPWHECK.  363 

bor  on  his  last  and  unfortunate  trip,  shook  his  father  heartily 
by  the  hand,  and  assured  him  that  neither  he  nor  mother 
might  need  want  for  anything  now.  It  was  the  first  voyage, 
too,  in  the  ill-fated  vessel  to  the  lad  Junner,  —  a  rough, 
frank-hearted  sailor,  who,  a  few  days  before,  had  quitted, 
under  circumstances  highly  honorable  to  him,  a  smack,  in 
which  he  had  sailed  for  several  years.  On  coming  down  on 
the  preceding  trip  from  London  in  very  stormy  weather,  a 
large,  wood-freighted  American  ship,  when  passing  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  vessel  in  which  he  sailed,  was 
struck  by  a  sudden  squall  and  fairly  upset.  Thirteen  of 
the  crew  succeeded  in  clambering  to  the  keel,  where  they 
began  to  cry  for  assistance  in  tones  so  fearfully  energetic 
that  the  sounds  have  been  ringing  in  the  ears  of  some  of  the 
smacksmen  ever  since.  There  was  a  high  broken  sea  run- 
ning at  the  time,  but  Junner,  a  thorough-bred  seaman,  con- 
vinced of  the  possibility  of  saving  at  least  some  of  the  poor 
men,  weared  ship  and  bore  down  on  the  wreck,  when  the 
master  came  on  deck,  and,  pronouncing  the  attempt  imprac- 
ticable, ordered  him  to  bear  away.  Junner  remonstrated, 
backed  by  our  old  friend  Gilmour  ;  nothing  could  be  easier, 
he  said,  than,  by  running  under  the  lee  of  the  foundered 
vessel,  to  open  up  a  communication  with  the  men  on  the 
keel.  The  master,  however,  a  low  fellow,  who  had  got 
charge  of  the  smack  only  the  voyage  before,  did  not  choose 
to  risk  himself  in  the  attempt,  and  the  poor  men  on  the 
wreck  were  left  to  their  fate.  Before  losing  sight  of  them, 
their  number  was  lessened  to  eleven ;  and  Junner,  who, 
had  the  rest  of  the  crew  backed  him,  would  have  rescued 
them  in  spite  of  the  master,  vowed  that  he  would  never  set 
foot  again  in  the  same  vessel  with  a  wretch  so  unfeeling. 
He  accordingly  engaged  with  the  poor  young  master  of  the 
*  Oak,'  and  perished  with  him  a  few  days  after. 

"  I  met  in  one  of  my  walks,  a  few  days  after  the  disaster, 


364  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

with  a  young  lady,  and  our  conversation  happened  to  turn 
on  it.  '  I  am  sorry,'  she  said,  '  for  the  master,  poor  young 
fellow !  and  for  the  wife  and  children  of  Junner ;  but  he 
himself  was  so  rude  in  his  manners,  and  so  ungrateful  to 
the  owners  of  the  vessel  in  which  he  had  sailed  so  long, 
that  I  cannot  be  sorry  for  him.'  I  saw  that  she  had  been 
misinformed  regarding  him,  and  set  her  right.  But  why 
relate  so  commonplace  an  incident  as  this  ?  I  will  tell  you 
why.  I  am  placed  at  present  in  a  rather  unusual  point  of 
observation  with  respect  to  the  two  classes  of  society  of 
which  our  little  town,  and  indeed  every  other  town,  small 
or  great,  is  composed.  I  see  all  that  is  passing  among  our 
tradesfolk  and  laborers,  and  know  all  their  opinions  ;  I  see, 
too,  much  of  what  is  passing  among  the  people  of  a  higher 
sphere,  and  have  been  acquainted  with  their  opinions  also. 
And  what  is  the  result  ?  That  there  exists  little  good-will 
between  them,  and  that  their  mutual  suspicions  and  jeal- 
ousies are  effects,  in  the  greater  number  of  instances,  of 
mistake  and  misconception.  They  are  so  divided  that 
they  never  meet  to  compare  notes ;  —  a  sad  state  of 
society,  surely,  in  such  times  as  the  present,  when  popular 
opinion  is  so  powerful  and  so  conscious  of  its  power. 
What  wonder  that  the  people  of  a  whole  country-side 
should  interest  themselves  in  the  fate  of  such  a  man  as 
poor  Junner,  or  that  they  should  feel  indignant  at  those 
who  could  misrepresent  his  character  in  the  way  related ! 
True,  the  misrepresentation  could  not  have  originated  with 
those  who  would  be  hated  and  reviled  for  it,  were  the 
people  to  come  to  hear  of  it ;  the  author  is  probably  some 
mean  little  thing  that  has  wriggled  itself  into  the  ear  of 
one  whose  notice  it  would  deem  a  bargain  at  any  price, 
and  which  it  has  purchased  at  the  cheap  rate  of  betraying  a 
few  secrets,  and  telling  a  great  many  falsehoods.  But  the 
people  would  never  think  of  asking  who  the  author  was. 


SOCIAL    RELATIONS.  365 

They  never  distinguish  between  those  who  credit  and  those 
who  invent ;  indeed,  the}^  are  at  too  great  a  distance  to 
make  the  distinction ;  and  thus  there  are  heart-burnings 
produced  and  jealousies  fostered,  which  even  in  the  present 
day  destroy  the  better  charities  of  society,  and  which  must 
produce  still  sadder  effects  in  the  future.  '  If,'  says  Lock- 
hart,  in  his  Life  of  Burns,  '  the  boundary-lines  of  society 
are  observed  with  increasing  strictness  among  us ;  if  the 
various  orders  of  men  still  day  by  day  feel  the  chord  of 
sympathy  relaxing,  —  we  may  well  lament  over  symptoms 
of  a  disease  in  the  body  politic  which,  if  it  goes  on,  must 
find  sooner  or  later  a  fatal  ending.'  There  is  true  philoso- 
phy in  this  remark  ;  and  it  is  not  one  of  the  most  harmless 
consequences  of  such  a  state,  that  the  higher  orders  should 
have  so  often  to  form  their  opinions  of  the  lower  on  the 
data  furnished  by  the  eavesdropper  and  the  tale-bearer.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  during  the  week  I  passed  at  Forres 
I  saw  much  that  delighted  me,  but  I  have  not  yet  told  you 
what  it  was  that  delighted  me  most :  just  your  manner  of 
addressing  the  poor  people  whom  you  occasionally  met  by 
the  way ;  the  frank  inquiry,  the  kind  reply,  the  good- 
humored  remark,  the  caress  bestowed  on  the  child,  the  com- 
pliment paid  to  the  mother,  —  in  short,  the  numberless 
proofs  of  this  kind  which  you  so  unwittingly  gave  me  that 
your  sympathies  crossed  the  broad  line  of  demarcation  and 
found  human  nature  on  the  other  side,  inspired  me  with  a 
respect  for  your  character  which  no  opposite  course  could 
have  led  me  to  entertain.  I  have  often  said  to  myself, 
Give  me  an  aristocracy  of  Miss  Dunbars,  and  we  shall  have 
no  revolution  for  a  century  to  come." 

"  CROMARTY,  March  29,  1834. 

"You  have   returned  to  Forres.     Would  that  it  were 
under  happier  auspices  and  with  brighter  hopes  !     But  I  do 


366  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

trust  that  in  the  quiet  of  retirement,  and  amid  all  that  con- 
stitutes home,  you  will  find  that  there  yet  remains  for  you 
much  of  comfort  and  enjoyment.  I  cannot  suffer  myself  to 
think  that  my  friend  is  to  be  other  than  happy,  and  would 
fain  believe  what  I  so  earnestly  wish.  There  is  a  moral 
alchemy  which  can  transmute  the  evils  of -life  into  bless- 
ings, and  you  are  not  unacquainted  with  the  secret.  Be- 
sides, it  is  wonderful  how  our  bodies,  and  our  minds  too, 
accommodate  themselves  to  the  circumstances  in  which  we 
are  placed,  and  how,  even  amid  much  pain,  and  much  una- 
voidable depression  of  spirits,  enough  of  pleasure  may  be 
found  to  render  life  desirable.  I  would  fain  have  some- 
thing to  build  upon  regarding  you,  —  were  it  but  the  con- 
sideration how  rest  proves  positive  enjoyment  to  those  who 
labor,  and  a  cessation  of  pain  positive  happiness  to  those 
who  suffer.  I  would  fain  find  something  to  solace  me  in 
the  story  of  the  prisoner,  who  found  his  dungeon  for  the 
first  few  weeks  so  utterly  dark  that  he  could  hardly  distin- 
guish day  and  night  in  it,  but  whose  eye  became  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  gloom  that  he  could  at  length  see  the  small- 
est insect  creeping  along  the  floor.  But  there  is  in  reality 
only  one  source  from  whence  comfort  may  be  drawn,  —  the 
mercy  of  that  God  who  does  not  afflict  willingly,  and  whose 
goodness  is  equal  to  his  power.  .  .  . 

"  I  spent  two  hours  very  agreeably  a  few  nights  ago  on 
the  wide  tract  of  sand  that  in  large  spring-tides  stretches 
beneath  the  town.  The  stream  was  one  of  the  largest  I 
ever  saw  :  I  could  walk  dry-shod  over  tracts  of  beach  which, 
in  ordinary  ebbs,  are  covered  by  well-nigh  five  feet  of  water. 
The  evening  was  cold  and  stormy,  and  yet  half  the  children 
of  the  town  were  frolicking  over  the  sands,  —  some  gather- 
ing periwinkles  or  catching  razor-fish,  and  not  a  few  philos- 
ophizing, like  myself,  on  a  class  of  vegetables  and  animals 
so  unlike  the  productions  of  either  kingdom  we  were  accus- 


THE    SANDS   AT   EBB.  867 

tomed  to  meet  with  on  land.  There  is  no  study  so  univer- 
sally a  favorite  as  the  study  of  natural  history,  and  at  no 
age  are  people  of  the  common  order  such  minute  observers 
as  in  their  childhood.  One  half  the  degree  of  attention  be- 
stowed by  the  boy  on  the  wonders  that  surround  him  would 
render  the  man  a  philosopher.  Among  the  juvenile  philos- 
ophers of  the  ebb  I  saw  a  little  deaf  boy  watching  with 
much  apparent  interest  a  contest  between  a  large  buckie  and 
a  young  razor-fish.  The  buckie  had  inserted  its  proboscis 
into  the  shell  of  the  latter,  and  was  pulling  out  the  poor 
tenant,  who  seemed  incapable  of  any  other  mode  of  resist- 
ance than  the  very  inefficient  one  of  rendering  itself  difficult 
to  be  swallowed.  I  saw  another  little  thing  of  about  six 
years  turning  over  with  a  stick  that  strange-looking  animal 
which  we  term  the  sea-snail  (naturalists  have  another  name 
for  it) ,  and  admiring  its  uncouth  conformation.  By  the  way, 
there  is  something  singular  about  this  animal  which  I  have 
never  yet  seen  noticed,  and  which  I  must  set  myself  more 
minutely  to  examine.  I  remember  that  when  sailing  my 
little  ship,  some  eighteen  years  ago,  I  once  or  twice  acci- 
dentally set  my  foot  on  a  sea-snail,  and  there  exuded  from 
it,  in  consequence  of  the  pressure,  a  blood-like  liquor  which 
tinged  the  water  with  crimson  for  yards  around.  You  know 
the  famous  purple  of  the  Tyrians  —  the  finest  and  most 
precious  of  all  the  ancient  dyes  —  is  said  to  have  been  ex- 
tracted from  some  unknown  species  of  fish.  What  if  that 
fish  be  the  sea-snail !  Would  it  not  be  rare  good  fun,  think 
you,  to  restore  one  of  the  lost  inventions,  and  that  solely 
for  the  benefit  of  one's  fair  countrywomen  ?  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  be  acquainted  with  the  animal.  It  is  a  reptile- 
looking  thing  about  four  inches  in  length  and  two  in  breadth 
when  at  the  largest,  of  an  oval  shape,  and  furnished  with 
legs  resembling  those  of  a  caterpillar  magnified.  The  back 
is  of  a  dusky  brown  and  covered  with  hair,  which,  when  the 


368  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

animal  is  alive,  seems  tinged  with  all  the  hues  of  the  rain- 
bow, but  which  fades  into  a  dirty  sand  color  when  it  is  dead. 
I  have  observed  that  more  unusual  phenomena  are  to  be 
seen  in  a  large  spring  ebb  than  in  twenty  ordinary  ones ; 
for,  though  the  water  falls  only  a  few  feet  lower,  in  these 
few  almost  all  the  plants  and  all  the  animals  are  uncommon. 
On  ascending  a  high  mountain  in  a  tropical  country,  the 
botanist,  after  rising  a  certain  height,  finds  it  girded  round 
with  a  broad  strip  of  vegetation  composed  of  the  plants  of 
a  more  temperate  climate  ;  he  ascends,  and  finds  in  a  second 
belt  the  trees  and  plants  of  still  colder  countries  ;  anon  he 
arrives  at  a  third  belt,  then  at  a  fourth,  and  at  length,  bor- 
dering on  the  line  where  all  vegetation  ceases,  he  meets 
with  the  mosses  and  lichens  of  Greenland  and  Nova  Zembla. 
Something  analogous  to  this  may  be  seen  on  the  wastes  left 
uncovered  by  the  ebb  of  such  a  spring  tide  as  the  last. 
First  we  pass  over  a  sterile  region  of  water-worn  pebbles  and 
gravel,  and  meet  with  neither  animal  nor  vegetable  life. 
Then  we  reach  a  strip  of  plants  of  a  deep  green  color,  some 
of  them  resembling  tufts  of  hair,  some  of  them  broad- 
leaved,  and  of  a  texture  exceedingly  delicate.  The  small 
green  crab  and  many-eyed  star-fish  are  natives  of  this 
region.  We  then  arrive  at  a  strip,  broader  than  the  last,  of 
brown  furcated  weeds,  beneath  which  we  find  whole  colonies 
of  the  black  periwinkle,  and  the  craw-fish  buckle.  A  waste 
of  sand  succeeds,  inhabited  by  several  varieties  of  shell 
fish  of  the  bivalve  species,  and  sprinkled  with  tufts  of  long 
sea-grass  and  brown  rope-weed.  We  find  in  it,  besides,  the 
sand-worm,  the  builder-worm,  and  the  yellow-spined  sea 
urchin.  A  stony  region  comes  next,  shaggy  and  rough 
with  kelp- weed  and  smooth-stemmed  tangle,  and  abounding 
with  the  cow-cockle,  the  brown,  toad-like  crab,  and  the 
large,  strong-shelled  buckie.  Last  of  all,  we  find  at  the 
water's  edge  a  forest  of  rough-stemmed  tangles,  the  favorite 


AN   OLD    HOUSE.  369 

resort  of  the  red  crab,  the  pink-colored  sea  urchin,  the 
dwarf  lobster,  and  the  lump  fish.  But  I  perceive  I  am  giv- 
ing you  rather  an  index  than  a  description.  Ever  since  I 
recollect  myself  I  had  a  turn  for  the  study  of  natural  his- 
tory, —  not  the  natural  history  of  books,  but  of  the  woods 
and  the  fields  and  the  sea-shore.  I  was  studying  it  all  un- 
wittingly, when  my  friends  thought  I  was  doing  nothing,  or 
worse  ;  and  I  now  find  that  through  my  predilection  for  it  I 
have  learned  more  in  the  days  I  played  truant  than  in  those 
I  attended  the  school.  Who  knows  whether  I  may  not  yet 
turn  my  acquaintance  with  it  to  some  account  ?  I  question 
whether  Sir  Thomas  had  any  thought,  twenty  years  ago,  of 
coming  before  the  public  as  the  editor  of  a  work  on  natural 
history. 

"  Lady  Clare  is  going  on  with  her  improvements  on  her 
newly  purchased  property,  and  threw  down,  a  few  days  ago, 
a  little  old  house,  which,  with  its  low,  serrated  gable  to  the 
street,  ran  back,  in  what  Professor  Jameson  calls  the  Flem- 
ish style,  into  the  heart  of  the  garden  behind.  And  what 
of  that  ?  you  may  say.  Not  much  to  any  one  but  me,  but 
I  have  grieved  for  that  little  old  house  as  for  a  friend.  I 
have  spent  in  it  some  of  the  happiest  hours  I  ever  spent 
anywhere.  The  front  part  of  it  was  occupied  by  the  shop 
of  a  house-painter,  but  in  the  upper  part  there  was  a  little 
room  which,  during  his  apprenticeship,  my  poor,  deceased 
friend,  William  Ross,  used  to  call  his  own.  He  slept  in  it, 
and  drew  in  it,  and  wrote  in  it,  and  took  in  it  many  a 
review  of  the  past,  and  formed  many  a  hope  for  the  future. 
I  saw  his  handwriting  on  the  wall,  in  a  much-admired  quo- 
tation from  Blair's  Grave  :  — 

"  '  Sure  the  last  end 

Of  the  good  man  is  peace  !     How  calm  his  exit ! 
Night  dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground, 
Nor  weary,  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft.' 


370  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

I  have  heard  him  repeat  the  passage  at  a  time  when  he  little 
thought  it  was  to  be  soon  realized  in  himself.  For  the  last 
fortnight  I  have  been  employed  in  writing  a  biographical 
sketch  of  him,  which  is  to  serve  as  one  of  the  chapters  of 
my  second  volume ;  and  it  will  not,  I  trust,  prove  one  of 
the  least  interesting.  He  has  now  been  in  his  grave  these 
six  years,  and  yet  my  recollections  of  him  are  as  fresh  as 
if  he  died  yesterday.  I  cannot  forget  him,  and  if  I  myself 
be  ever  known  to  the  world,  the  world  shall  know  why." 

The  last-mentioned  intention  Miller  made  good.  A  sep- 
arate biographical  sketch  of  Ross  from  his  pen  I  have  not, 
indeed,  seen,  and  no  second  volume  of  Traditions  was  ever 
published ;  but  he  has  immortalized  his  friend  in  the 
"  Schools  and  Schoolmasters." 

The  letter  of  Mrs.  Grant  of  Laggan,  author  of  the  once 
popular  Letters  from  the  Highlands,  referred  to  by  Miller 
in  the  letter  which  follows,  was  written  to  her  friend  Miss 
Dunbar,  and  contained  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  Mil- 
ler :— 

"  CROMARTY,  April  22,  1834. 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  your  elegant  gift?  I  have 
already  spent  some  hours  in  admiring  it,  and  every  time  it 
catches  my  eye  I  can  gaze  on  it  with  fresh  interest.  There 
are  some  faces  which  one  never  tires  of  looking  at,  —  trans- 
parent sort  of  faces,  through  which  we  can  see  the  soul,  — 
and  Sir  James'  is  as  decidedly  one  of  this  class  as  any  I 
ever  saw.  Did  you  ever  before  see  an  expression  so 
unequivocally  indicative  of  the  pure,  good-tempered  benev- 
olence, which  one-  cannot  but  love,  blent  with  that  calm  but 
awful  dignity  of  thought  which  one  cannot  but  revere? 
One  of  the  first  political  works  I  read  with  interest  was  Sir 
James*  '  Vindiciae  Gallicae.'  As  a  piece  of  argument,  it  is 
superior  to  the  exquisite  volume  of  his  opponent,  and  little, 
if  at  all,  inferior  to  it  as  a  piece  of  composition.  The 


CHILDREN'S  FACES. 


same  year  robbed  us  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  When  shall  another  year  find  us  with  so 
much  to  lose  ?  . 

"  Speaking  of  faces,  it  will  be  found  that  those  we  can 
look  longest  at,  and  with  most  pleasure,  bear  the  impression 
of  the  gentler  and  softer,  rather  than  that  of  the  more  vio- 
lent passions.  I  once  saw  a  dead  infant  on  whose  placid 
features  I  could  have  gazed  for  hours  together.  They  were 
so  beautifully  formed  and  reposed  in  so  exquisite  a  tranquil- 
lity !  The  poor  mother  was  weeping  beside  it  ;  the  father, 
though  less  subdued,  had  not  less  to  contend  with  ;  the 
features  of  two  or  three  relatives  wore  the  downcast  expres- 
sion befitting  the  occasion  ;  but  there  it  lay,  in  the  midst 
of  sorrow  and  melancholy,  the  happiest-looking  thing  that 
death  had  ever  passed  over.  There  was  an  air  of  intelli- 
gence, too,  about  it  which  a  masterly  sculptor  might,  per- 
haps, have  transferred  to  a  piece  of  marble,  but  which  was 
associated  with  feelings  which  no  piece  of  marble  could 
have  awakened.  Every  one  has  observed  how  very  intelli- 
gent children  sometimes  look  ;  it  has  even  been  supposed, 
prettily  enough,  though  fancifully  enough,  too,  that  infants, 
when  they  smile  in  their  dreams,  are  conversing  with  beings 
of  a  better  world  (Professor  Wilson  has  introduced  the 
thought  very  happily  into  one  of  his  shorter  poems)  ;  and 
so  natural  is  the  supposition,  that  I  have  repeatedly  heard 
it  expressed  by  people  who  had  borrowed  it  from  no  one. 
But  the  expression  in  the  case  I  describe  suggested  thoughts 
which,  equally  interesting,  had  more  of  an  air  of  truth 
about  them,  —  thoughts  of  the  new  state  into  which  what, 
in  the  language  of  earth,  was  termed  the  deceased  infant, 
was  newly  born,  and  in  which  it  might  have  already  learned 
more  than  the  wisest  of  those  it  had  left  behind. 

"  And  now  for  an  incident.  When  gazing  on  the  sweet 
little  face,  footsteps  were  heard  approaching  the  door,  and 


372  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

the  cloth  was  drawn  over.  The  latch  was  raised,  and  a  poor 
beggar  woman,  accompanied  by  a  little  girl  and  boy,  the 
eldest  not  more  than  five  years  of  age,  half  crossed  the 
threshold  and  then  stood  ;  but,  on  seeing  from  the  furni- 
ture, which  was  hung  with  white,  and  the  appearance  of  the 
bed,  that  there  was  a  corpse  in  the  apartment,  the  woman 
dropped  a  few  words  in  Gaelic,  by  way  of  apology  for  the 
interruption.  She  lingered,  however,  at  the  door,  and  I  saw 
her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She  was  a  widow,  a  native  of  the 
Western  Highlands,  which  were  visited  that  .year  by 
scarcity ;  and,  to  avoid  starvation,  she  had  travelled  as  a 
mendicant  with  her  little  family,  which  had  consisted  of 
three  children,  to  the  low  country,  but,  in  crossing  the  hills, 
a  few  days  before,  her  youngest  child  had  taken  ill  and  died. 
She  stated  her  simple  story  in  a  few  words,  and  begged  to 
be  permitted  to  look  at  the  dead  infant.  The  face  accord- 
ingly was  again  uncovered ;  but  I  want  words  to  describe 
to  you  what  followed,  and  yet  the  scene  was  one  of  the 
simplest  possible.  The  poor  woman,  rather  good-looking 
and  young,  though  much  worn,  with  nothing  of  the  beggar 
in  either  her  dress  or  expression,  stood  fronting  the  dead, 
her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast,  and  the  tears  coursing 
down  her  cheeks.  All  the  mother  was  roused  in  her  ;  and 
the  feelings  of  the  other  mother,  reawakened  by  the  excite- 
ment, were  finding  vent  in  a  fresh  burst  of  sorrow.  Every 
one  present,  even  the  firmest  of  us,  was  affected ;  while 
the  two  Highland  children,  holding  by  the  gown  of  their 
mother,  were  looking  anxiously  at  the  object  of  an  interest 
so  general,  —  the  elder  with  more  of  curiosity,  the  younger 
with  more  of  terror.  Would  that  I  were  a  painter  ! 

"  '  It  is  sweet,'  says  an  old  poet,  '  to  be  praised  by  one 
whom  all  the  world  conspires  in  praising.'  Need  I  say 
with  what  feelings  I  perused  the  letter  of  Mrs.  Grant,  of 
Laggan?  merely  as  a  letter  of  hers,  —  as  affording  an  in- 


INCIPIENT    CELEBRITY.  373 

stance  of  mind  triumphing  amid  the  decay  of  matter,  —  as 
furnishing  a  proof  that  the  affection  of  a  generous  heart 
neither  the  chills  nor  shadows  of  old  age  can  darken  or 
impair,  —  I  would  have  deemed  it  highly  interesting  and 
valuable ;  but  to  me  it  is  all  this  and  a  great  deal  more. 
Every  man  is  somebody  to  himself;  but  I  have  the  good 
fortune,  and  I  am  not  dull  in  appreciating  it,  of  being 
somebody  to  myself  and  to  Mrs.  Grant,  too.  I  have  been 
a  good  deal  in  luck  in  the  number  and  quality  of  the  com- 
pliments paid  me  of  late,  but  with  one  or  two  exceptions  I 
think  I  can  trace  you  either  directly  or  indirectly  in  them 
all.  First,  my  '  Stanzas  on  a  Sun-Dial '  appeared  in 
'  Chambers'  Edinburgh  Journal/  prefaced  by  a  note,  in 
which  they  are  designated  as  nervous  and  elegant,  and  the 
fact  that  the  author  should  be  a  working  mason  questioned. 
Next  they  appeared  in  a  Sussex  paper,  in  which  they  are 
praised  still  more  highly,  —  described,  indeed,  as  '  marked 
by  a  refinement  of  thought,  an  elegance  and  propriety  of 
language,  that  would  do  honor  to  the  most  accomplished 
poet  of  the  day.'  Where,  think  you,  did  they  next 
appear?  In  a  Newry  paper,  which  was  sent  me  by  the 
editor,  a  man  I  never  before  heard  of.  He  is  extravagant 
in  his  commendations  of  the  whole,  and  some  of  the  lines 
he  has  printed  in  italics,  as  peculiarly  felicitous.  The 
stanzas  then  took  the  round  —  for  they  seem  to  have 
pleased  the  Irishes  hugely  —  of  well-nigh  half  the  Hibernian 
periodical  press.  I  was  just  recovering  my  modesty,  which, 
after  all  these  shocks,  was,  as  you  may  think,  in  a  bad 
enough  state,  when  out  came  the  second  volume  of  Allan 
Cunningham's  Burns,  with  the  compliment  which  you  have 
seen.  To  weigh  against  it,  however,  and  keep  me  humble, 
I  find  he  has  compressed  my  letter  into  half  its  original 
bulk,  and  that  more  than  half  its  brains  have  been  squeezed 
out  in  the  operation.  But  still  there  is  a  little  sense  left ; 


374  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

and  the  compliment  is  from  Allan  Cunningham.  And  now, 
last  of  all,  and  worth  all  the  others  put  together,  comes  the 
letter  of  Mrs.  Grant.  But  how,  in  sober  fact,  do  I  feel 
after  all  this?  Grateful,  I  trust,  and  certainly  much 
pleased,  but  not  at  all  elated.  I  have  myself  to  contend 
with,  and  myself  to  satisfy ;  it  will  be  a  long  time,  I  am 
afraid,  ere  I  shall  be  successful  in  so  hard  a  contest,  or  suc- 
ceed in  pleasing  so  fastidious  a  critic ;  and  yet,  until  that 
time  comes,  the  approbation  of  others,  however  profound 
their  judgment  or  exquisite  their  taste,  will  have  the  effect 
rather  of  showing  me  what  I  ought  to  be,  than  what  I  am. 
Is  it  not  wonderful  that  the  fancy  of  Mrs.  Grant  should  be 
still  so  active,  so  engagingly  playful  ?  There  is  not  less  of 
it  in  her  last  brief  epistle  to  you  than  in  any  of  her  earlier 
ones. 

"  If  ever  my  Traditions  get  abroad  they  will  be  all  the 
better  for  having  stayed  so  long  at  home.  And  now,  what 
shall  I  say  of  your  last  brief  epistle  ?  This  much,  at  least, 
that  were  it  ten  times  more  brief,  still  I  would  value  it  as 
coming  from  you.  At  this  time  of  day  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  of  the  value  I  set  on  your  letters,  how  fondly  I  treasure 
them  up,  or  how  often  I  peruse  them ;  but  I  must  not  be 
selfish,  and  you  will  judge  that  I  am  not,  when  I  say,  do 
not  for  the  future,  till  your  health  fully  permits,  give  me 
more  than  half  a  sheet,  and  do  not  fill  even  that  at  one  sit- 
ting. That  God  may  be  with  you,  to  support  and  comfort, 
is  the  earnest  wish,  and,  I  trust,  earnest  prayer  of,"  etc. 

"  CROMARTY,  May  8,  1834. 

.  .  .  .  "  There  is  a  poor  idiot  boy  in  the  neighbor- 
hood here  who  spends  much  of  his  time  with  me  in  the 
church-yard,  and  who,  when  I  am  writing  in  my  little  room, 
frequently  creeps  upstairs  and  squats  himself  beside  me.  I 
never  yet  saw  any  one  of  the  class  in  whom  intellect  is  so 


THE   IDIOT   BOY.  375 

entirely  wanting  as  in  this  poor  thing.  He  cannot  even 
count  three ;  but  he  has  a  few  simple  instincts  which  seem 
given  him  to  supply  in  part  the  want  of  the  higher  faculties, 
and  (a  still  more  important  matter)  some  of  the  better 
affections  of  our  nature,  —  love  and  compassion,  and  sorrow 
for  the  loss  or  absence  of  those  who  have  been  kind  to  him. 
It  is  interesting  to  find  these  so  rudely  set;  they  seem  be- 
stowed upon  him  to  awaken  a  sympathy  for  him  in  the 
breasts  of  those  to  whom  he  attaches  himself.  He  is  pres- 
ent, sitting  beside  me,  babbling  in  an  uncouth,  imperfect 
dialect,  which  I  can  only  partially  understand,  about  him- 
self and  me.  I  am  to  get  leave  to  sleep  with  him,  and  he 
is  to  give  me  sugar  and  a  dram,  and  two  eggs.  Only  a  few 
days  ago  he  lost  his  father ;  but  until  the  day  of  his  funeral 
he  could  not  be  made  to  understand  that  he  would  have  to 
part  with  him.  He  was  sleeping,  he  said,  and  would  be 
well  when  he  awoke.  When  he  saw  the  corpse  placed  in 
the  coffin,  however,  and  people  gathering  for  the  funeral, 
some  faint  idea  of  what  had  happened  seemed  to  cross  him, 
for  he  became  silent  and  melancholy ;  and,  stealing  out  of 
the  house  to  where  I  was  employed  in  the  church-yard,  he 
laid  hold  of  me  with  an  '  Oh,  come,  oh,  come,  —  father 
sleeping,  —  no  waken,  —  no  waken  at  all,  —  oh,  come  ! '  I 
went  with  him  and  followed  the  funeral,  partly  to  satisfy 
him,  partly  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the  workings  of  nature  in 
a  mind  so  uninformed  and  imperfect.  He  squatted  down 
at  the  head  of  the  grave,  and  watched,  with  an  expression 
indescribably  affecting,  and  in  which  grief,  astonishment, 
and  terror  seemed  equally  blended,  every  motion  of  the 
sexton  and  the  bearers  ;  and  when  the  grave  was  filled,  and 
the  sod  placed  over  it,  he  seemed  uncertain  whether  to 
return  home  or  remain  where  he  was.  He  is  even  now  tell- 
ing me  that  he  is  to  keep  part  of  his  morning  piece  for  his 
father,  who  is  to  come  out  of  his  grave  to-morrow.  I  have 


376  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

remarked,  though  without  well  knowing  on  what  principle 
to  account  for  it,  that  the  grief  or  affection  of  poor  helpless 
things  of  this  class  has  something  in  it  which  touches  us 
more  than  the  expression  of  similar  feelings  in  persons  pos- 
sessed of  an  ordinary  share  of  understanding.  Perhaps  we 
are  more  convinced  of  their  sincerity,  —  perhaps  struck  by 
finding  amid  such  miserable  ruins  of  our  nature  a  part,  and 
that  no  unimportant  one,  so  entire  and  unbroken,  —  a 
human  heart  so  abstracted  from  a  human  understanding,  as 
to  remind  us  of  the  story  of  John  Huss,  whose  heart 
remained  unconsumed  among  his  ashes  ;  or,  perhaps,  as 
they  stand  so  much  in  need  of  our  protection,  there  is  a 
natural  provision  made  for  them  in  our  bosoms,  on  the 
same  principle  that  there  is  a  provision  made  for  the  help- 
lessness of  children  in  the  affection  of  their  mothers ;  and 
the  interest  taken  in  their  uncouth  expressions  of  affection 
may  be  but  a  natural  effect  of  the  principle.  Whatever  the 
cause,  the  feeling  certainly  exists,  and  some  of  our  best 
writers  have  not  disdained  to  appeal  to  it.  The  fool  in 
Lear  is  not  less  true  to  his  poor  forlorn  master  than  the 
most  devoted  of  his  nobles.  It  is  Davie  Gellatly  whom 
Scott  has  described  as  moaning  in  the  bitterness  of  regret 
amid  the  ruins  of  the  Baron's  mansion,  and  as  faithful  to 
him  in  his  lowest  extremity.  It  is  Wamba,  too,  who  of  all 
Cedric's  servants  is  readiest  to  lay  down  his  life  for  him, 
like  a  faithful  fool,  and  whose  devoted  attachment  extorts 
tears  from  the  stern  old  man,  though  he  has  none  to  shed 
over  his  own  disasters,  or  the  dead  body  of  his  friend. 

"  Mr.  Stewart  has  just  closed  a  course  of  sermons  on  the 
future  return  of  the  Jews  to  their  own  land,  in  which  he 
has  delighted  the  thinking  part  of  us  with  many  splendid 
bursts  of  eloquence,  and  an  immense  body  of  original 
thought.  Some  of  his  bolder  opinions  on  the  subject  he 
rather  hinted  at  than  fully  expressed.  I  have  succeeded, 


RETURN    OF   THE   JEWS.  377 

however,  in  laying  hold  of  a  few  of  the  more  interesting  of 
these.  He  seems  to  be  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  Jews 
are  reserved  for  the  accomplishment  of  some  great  purpose 
in  the  moral  government  of  the  world.  What,  says  he,  if 
the  spirit  of  infidelity,  so  dominant  in  the  present  age,  and 
which  seems  to  be  sapping  the  foundations  of  every  relig- 
ion, true  and  false,  should  at  length  so  thoroughly  prevail 
that  the  Church  and  the  Pagod  and  the  Mosque  should 
come  to  be  involved  in  one  general  ruin,  and  every  form  of 
worship  be  banished  from  the  earth ;  what  if,  when  there 
survived,  of  all  who  had  prayed  to  any  Deity,  only  a  few 
despised,  disheartened  followers  of  the  cross,  —  when  the 
great  mass  of  the  people  in  every  country,  amenable  to  no 
authority,  without  one  tie  of  morality,  or  one  belief  of  a 
future  world  of  rewards  and  punishments,  shall,  with  their 
mouths  filled  with  denunciations  against  tyranny,  be  them- 
selves the  bloodiest  and  most  despotic  of  tyrants ;  what 
if,  at  such  a  time,  the  Spirit  of  God  should  breathe  upon 
the  dry  bones  of  Judah  until,  covered  with  flesh  and  sinew, 
and  animated  by  the  principle  of  life,  they  shall  stand  up 
among  the  nations,  an  exceeding  great  multitude,  to  testify 
through  the  miracle  of  the  power  and  faithfulness  of  God, 

—  and,  converted  themselves,  be  the  grand  and  fully  ade- 
quate means  of  the  conversion  of  a  world  ?     Is  there  not 
something  wonderfully  expansive,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
highly  pleasing,  in  the  thought  ?     Take  another  in  the  same 
style.     What  if  those   differences   which  now  divide  the 
Christian  world,  —  setting  even  good  men  in  hostile  oppo- 
sition to  each  other,  and  destroying,  in  no  slight  degree, 
those  charities  which  it  is  the  part  of  religion  to  inculcate, 

—  are  to  receive  their  final  adjustment  on  the  return  of  the 
Jews?     It  is  to  be  no  common  outpouring  of  the  Spirit 
which  is  to  sweep  away  in  that  people  the  prejudices  which, 
for  a  period  of  nearly  twenty  centuries,  have  shut  them  up 


378  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

to  an  obstinate  rejection  of  the  Messiah ;  and  when  under 
the  influence  of  that  outpouring  they  shall  set  themselves  to 
the  study  of  the  whole  Scriptures,  to  fix  their  belief  as  a 
Christian  Church  regarding  those  minor  points  on  which 
Christians  at  present  disagree,  there  is  little  probability  of 
their  being  led  into  error,  or  that  their  decision  shall  not 
influence  the  Churches  of  the  Gentiles. 

"  I  have  been  so  fortunate  of  late  as  to  procure  the 
perusal  of  a  highly  interesting  piece  of  antiquity :  the 
Session  Records  of  Cromarty  during  the  Establishment  of 
Episcopacy.  They  commence  in  the  year  1674,  and  ter- 
minate in  1688,  the  year  of  the  Revolution.  They  are 
written  in  an  extremely  old  hand  (which,  however,  I  am 
antiquary  enough  to  decipher),  and  from  this  circumstance 
have  lain  in  the  archives  of  the  Session  for  at  least  the  last 
three  generations  unopened  and  unread.  They  furnish  me 
with  a  great  mass  of  local  history  curiously  stamped  with  the 
peculiar  manners  of  the  age ;  with  narratives  of  the  little, 
foolish  bickerings  and  disputes  of  men  whose  sagacity  we 
look  up  to  as'  very  superior  to  our  own ;  and  stories  long 
since  forgotten  that  at  one  period  employed  all  the  tongues 
and  all  the  ears  of  the  place,  for  no  better  reason,  I  am 
afraid,  than  that  they  exposed  the  weakness  or  wickedness 
of  an  acquaintance  or  neighbor.  Our  great-great-grand- 
fathers, I  suspect,  were  not  a  whit  wiser,  or  better,  or  hap- 
pier than  ourselves ;  and  our  great-great-grandmothers, 
poor  ladies,  seem  to  have  had  quite  the  same  passions  as 
their  descendants,  with  as  little  ability  to  control  them.  I 
see  there  are  vices  which,  like  passions,  have  their  rise  and 
decline ;  and  that  we  often  deem  an  age  more  virtuous 
than  our  own  merely  because  it  was  wicked  in  a  different 
way.  There  were  ladies  of  Cromarty  in  the  good  year 
1680  'maist  horrible  cussers,'  who  accused  one  another  of 
being  'witches  and  witch-getts,  with  all  their  folk  afore 


SESSION   RECORDS    OF   CROMARTY.  379 

them/  for  generations  untold  ;  gentlemen  who  had  to  stand 
at  the  pillar  for  unlading  the  boats  of  a  smuggler  at  ten 
o'clock  on  Sabbath  night ;  '  maist  scandalous  reprobates ' 
who  got  drunk  on  Sundays,  and  '  abased  decent  folk  gang- 
ing till  the  kirk ; '  and  '  ill-conditioned  raggit  loons  who 
raisit  ane  disturbance  and  faught  i'  the  scholars'  loft '  in  the 
time  of  divine  service.  Were  I  not  so  engaged  at  present, 
I  would  draw  up  from  the  Session  records  of  the  parish  a 
scheme  of  comparative  morality  of  each  succeeding  genera- 
tion for  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  scheme 
would  be  at  least  a  curious  one,  and  might  show,  among 
other  things,  how  little  conducive  the  iron  despotism  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  was  to  the  establishment  of  a  high-toned 
morality  among  the  people.  Husbands  and  their  wives  do 
penance  in  the  church  in  this  reign  for  their  domestic 
quarrels ;  boys  are  whipped  by  the  beadle  for  returning 
from  a  journey  on  Sabbath ;  men  are  set  in  the  jougs  for 
charging  elders  of  rather  doubtful  character  with  being 
drunk ;  boatmen  are  fined  for  crossing  the  ferry  with  a 
passenger  during  church  time ;  and  Presbyterian  farmers 
are  fined  still  more  heavily  for  absenting  themselves  from 
church.  Under  a  tyranny  so  intolerable  the  people  seem 
to  have  been  brutalized,  and,  in  consequence,  greatly  in- 
creased in  crime." 

"CROMARTY,  July  10,  1834. 

"  I  would  have  written  you  long  ere  now,  but  I  have 
been  for  the  last  fortnight  in  a  rather  unsettled  mood  and 
unable  to  fix  my  attention  very  strongly  on  anything.  I 
have  been  looking  at  the  world  and  the  world's  matters,  at 
my  friends  and  myself,  through  a  darkened  medium,  and 
you  will  but  too  well  comprehend  the  wlierefore  of  the  case 
when  I  tell  you  that  my  nerves  have  been  affected.  Addi- 
son  was  quite  right  when  he  remarked  that  the  habit  of 


380  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

looking  on  only  the  bright  side  of  things  is  worth  five 
hundred  a  year. 

"  My  way  home  from  you  was  divided  between  a  very 
pleasant  drive  and  one  of  the  most  disagreeable,  tedious 
voyages  you  can  think  of.  I  was  more  than  six  hours  on 
the  frith,  —  and  six  such  hours !  —  beating  all  the  way 
right  in  the  teeth  of  a  strong  wind  and  a  heavy  tumbling 
sea,  with  a  sick  female  passenger  who  had  thrown  herself, 
in  a  paroxysm  of  nausea,  on  the  floor  of  the  little  cabin, 
where  she  lay  like  a  corpse,  and  a  set  of  boatmen,  who 
were  too  seriously  employed  in  taking  in  reef  after  reef  as 
the  gale  increased,  to  afford  me  any  amusement.  The  fel- 
lows were  too  frightened  either  to  make  jokes  or  to  under- 
stand them.  I  wish  you  had  seen  the  expression  with 
which  one  of  them  shook  his  head,  and  said  he  hoped  we 
would  get  through,  on  my  remarking  to  him  that  the  wind 
was  coming  thick  and  thin  like  ill-made  porridge,  and  how 
he  shut  his  eyes  and  showed  his  teeth  every  time  a  heavier 
wave  sent  its  spray  half-way  up  the  mast.  Above  all,  I 
wish  you  had  seen  the  hills  of  Culbin  as  they  looked  this 
day  over  the  water.  Some  of  the  heavier  blasts  raised  the 
sand  in  such  dense  clouds,  that  when  the  sun  shone  they 
seemed  heightened  by  more  than  a  thousand  feet,  and 
towered  over  the  blue  hills  behind ;  but  the  outlines  were 
faint  and  ill-defined,  and,  like  the  waves  that  were  tumbling 
around  us,  they  rose  and  fell  with  the  wind.  I  got  home 
about  six  o'clock. 

"  I  would  doubtlessly  have  derived  more  pleasure  from 
my  visit  had  I  found  you  enjoying  the  health  and  spirits 
of  the  previous  season ;  but  it  has  not  been  without  its 
pleasures.  I  have  seen  much  that  interested  me,  and  ex- 
perienced much  kindness.  There  is  comfort,  too,  in  the 
conviction  that  my  friend,  though  she  has  to  suffer,  can  suf- 
fer patiently  and  well ;  and  can  indulge  in  the  hope  that 


THE    SAND-WASTES   OF    CULBIN.  381 

even  pain,  as  the  dispensation  of  a  benevolent  God,  who 
does  not  afflict  willingly,  must  have  its  work  of  mercy  to 
perform.  How  good  a  thing  it  is  to  be  enabled  to  repose 
our  trust  upon  him  !  .  .  . 

"  My  imagination  is  still  full  of  the  wild  sand-wastes  of 
Culbin ;  a  scene  so  very  unlike  any  I  ever  saw  before,  but 
which  corresponds  so  entirely  with  all  I  had  read  and  heard 
of  the  arid,  wide-extended  deserts  of  Africa  and  the  East. 
I  could  almost  fancy,  when,  standing  in  one  of  the  larger 
hollows,  I  looked  round  me,  and  saw  only  hills  of  barren 
sand  and  heaps  of  gravel,  with  here  and  there  a  dingy 
rocky-looking  flat  which  had  once  been  vegetable  soil,  but 
which  could  no  longer  support  vegetable  life,  —  I  could 
almost  fancy  that,  having  anticipated  the  flight  of  time  by 
many  centuries,  I  had  arrived  at  the  old  age  of  creation, 
and  witnessed  the  earth  in  its  dotage." 

"  CROMARTT,  August  25,  1834. 

"  Do  not  deem  me  careless  and  ungrateful.  Not  one  of 
your  friends  has  thought  more  regarding  you  during  the 
last  four  weeks  than  I  have,  though  a  hundred  unlooked-for 
demands  on  my  time,  and  (what  proved  much  more  harass- 
ing) a  nervous  indolence,  which  of  late  has  hung  much 
about  me,  prevented  me  from  writing.  Burns  seems  to 
have  been  quite  in  the  right  in  deeming  those  disorders 
which  we  term  nervous,  diseases  of  the  mind,  though  they 
perhaps  rather  depress  our  confidence  in  our  powers  than 
prostrate  the  powers  themselves.  '  I  cannot  reason,'  says 
he,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  4 1  cannot  think ; 
and  but  to  you  I  would  not  venture  to  write  anything 
above  an  order  to  a  cobbler.'  It  is  a  singular  enough  fact, 
however,  that  the  letter  in  which  he  says  so  is  one  of  the 
finest  he  ever  wrote. 

"  My  time,  I  have  said,  has  been  much  occupied  of  late : 


382  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

I  have  been  twice  to  Inverness,  thrice  at  the  burn  of  Craig- 
house,  twice  at  the  beds  of  bituminous  shale,  with  their 
numerous  and  highly  interesting  animal  remains,  once  all 
around  the  northern  Sutor,  and  I  know  not  how  often  on 
the  hill  of  Cromarty  and  at  the  Doocot  Cave.  It  is  a  sad 
thing  to  be  unable  to  make  a  proper  use  of  the  important 
monosyllable  no.  My  trips  to  Inverness,  however,  were 
solely  on  my  own  account,  and  in  a  few  days  I  think  I 
shall  visit  Tain  on  a  similar  errand.  I  have  written  within 
the  last  month  more  than  twenty  letters,  some  of  them 
of  considerable  length.  Withal,  I  have  been  employed  in 
the  church-yard,  though  of  course  not  quite  so  regularly  as 
if  there  had  been  no  parties  or  no  writing. 

"  Mr.  Stewart  is  at  present  at  Strathpeffer,  in  quest  of 
health,  and  his  place  here  is  occupied  by  a  relative  of 
his  own,  a  Mr.  Robertson.  He  is  a  son  of  the  late 
Prof.  Robertson,  of  St.  Andrews,  and  a  truly  fine  fel- 
low,—  frank,  open-hearted,  talented,  and  well-read.  He 
and  I  have  been  at  Eathie  together,  and  all  over  the  hill. 
We  have  explored,  too,  the  whole  northern  Sutor.  There 
is  much  pleasure  in  coming  in  contact  with  an  original 
thinker,  and  there  may  be  much  profit.  In  the  present  day 
the  world  of  books  is  open  to  every  one,  but  there  are  many 
thoughts  which  arise  in  one's  mind  which  cannot  be  tested 
by  anything  we  find  in  books.  But  the  mind  of  an  original 
thinker,  when  one  is  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  one, 
can  be  brought  to  bear  on  one's  inner  mysteries  of  thought, 
—  he  is  a  touchstone  to  try,  a  light  to  discover.  I  have  felt 
this  with  regard  to  Mr.  Robertson.  In  passing  with  him 
along  the  northern  Sutor  I  could  not  help  regretting  that 
our  expedition  to  it  last  year  should  have  been  so  unlucky. 
Some  of  the  caves  are  truly  superb ;  one  in  particular, 
which  perforates  the  base  of  a  huge  rocky  promontory,  I 
have  not  yet  seen  surpassed.  It  has  three  magnificent  en- 


MR.  ROBERTSON'S  RECOLLECTIONS.  383 

trances,  all  terminating  in  one  point,  from  whence  a  second 
cave  shoots  off  still  deeper  into  the  recesses  of  the  rock, 
and  at  the  extremity  of  which  noon  is  dark  as  midnight." 

Mr.  J.  R.  Robertson,  referred  to  in  terms  so  flattering  in 
this  letter,  is  now  resident  in  London,  and  has  kindly 
furnished  me  with  the  following  vivid  and  interesting 
account  of  his  intercourse  with  Hugh  Miller  :  — 

"  In  the  summer  of  1834  I  went  to  Cromarty,  intending 
to  stay  a  few  days,  and.  then  to  pursue  my  wanderings 
through  the  north  Highlands.  Circumstances  detained  me 
upwards  of  two  months.  Almost  immediately  on  my  ar- 
rival, I  was  introduced  to  Hugh  Miller,  who  was  already  a 
celebrity  in  his  native  town  and  neighborhood.  He  was 
tall  and  athletic,  and  had  a  large  head,  made  to  look  huge 
by  a  rusty  profusion  of  not  very  carefully  remembered  hair. 
His  whiskers  were  not  large,  and  represented  red  sand- 
stone, his  eyes  gray  and  keen,  his  features  spoke  of  intelli- 
gence and  determination!  and  exposure  to  the  sun  had 
daubed  him  with  freckles.  He  did  not  appear  quite  so  tall 
as  he  was,  owing  to  a  slouch  in  his  walk,  and  a  tendency 
to  carry  his  massive  brow  in  the  van,  which  gave  him  the 
semblance  of  stooping. 

"  He  had  before  this  time  exhibited  his  wonderful  powers 
of  composition,  and  achieved  a  pretty  wide  local  fame  as  a 
great  student,  a  deep  and  original  thinker,  and  a  writer  of 
articles  in  an  Inverness  paper,  and  of  telling  pamphlets  on 
matters  of  interest  to  his  town  and  country  and  the  region 
round.  I  had  not  previously  heard  his  name,  and  only  by 
degrees  became  aware  of  the  great  pride  his  fellow-citizens 
took  in  him,  and  in  what  he  was  expected  to  do.  A  day  or 
two  after  my  arrival  in  Cromarty,  I  was  walking  past  the 
church-yard,  and  saw  a  man  with  his  coat  off,  busily  chisel- 
ling a  tombstone.  Vaulting  over  the  wall,  I  went  towards 
him.  Hugh  raised  himself,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  con- 


384  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

versation  put  on  his  coat .  of  hodden  gray,  and  said  he 
would  show  me  the  caves  on  the  northern  shore  of  the 
southern  Sutor.  As  we  passed  the  disused  burying-ground 
of  a  ruinous  old  chapel,  he  told  me  the  story  of  the  solitary 
grave  outside  the  boundary  wall,  where  reposed  the  dust  of 
a  man,  who  gave  directions  for  his  sepulture  in  this  spot,  as 
it  would  give  him  the  start  of  his  companions  or  accusers 
on  the  Day  of  Judgment,  to  be  held  on  a  neighboring  ele- 
vation. Our  path  was  by  a  well,  about  which  he  told  a 
legend.  It  was  celebrated  for  the  curing  of  some  com- 
plaints. The  caves  were  rendered  classical,  also,  by  stories 
of  daring  smugglers,  and  of  other  wild  doings. 

u  During  the  eight  or  nine  weeks  I  remained  in  Cro- 
marty,  Hugh  and  I  walked  over  all  the  neighborhood.  We 
tried  each  other's  strength  in  many  ways,  —  leaping,  vault- 
ing, throwing  heavy  stones,  climbing  precipices,  etc.  He 
took  me  to  many  of  his  haunts.  He  was  very  successful  in 
the  search  for  geological  specimens,  and  in  breaking  nod- 
ules. We  discussed  all  the  questions  of  the  day.  He  was 
very  well  acquainted  with  English  literature,  and  had  care- 
fully studied  translations  of  most  of  the  celebrated  foreign 
classics,  ancient  and  modern.  He  appea?*ed  to  me  to  be 
more  of  a  practical  philosopher  than  either  distinctively 
literary  or  abstractly  scientific.  He  had  made  some  good 
water-color  sketches,  and  practised  poetry  as  well  as  prose. 
His  former  poetry  was  far  behind  his  poetic  prose. 
He  was  admired  and  wondered  at  by  all  classes  of  his 
townsmen  ;  and  I  met  him  at  dinner  and  at  evening  parties 
constantly.  The  questions  daily  put  to  me  were,  '  Isn't 
Hugh  Miller  a  wonderful  man  ? '  and  '  Isn't  he  very  hum- 
ble?' -I  always  acquiesced  in  the  opinion  that  he  was  a 
wonderful  person,  and  dwelt  so  much  on  this  that  the  in- 
quiry as  to  his  humility  was  generally  forgotten.  Had  I 
been  pressed  on  that  point,  I  should  have  answered,  No. 


MR.  ROBERTSON'S  RECOLLECTIONS.  385 

He  had  great  ability,  and  he  knew  it,  and  was  determined 
that  the  world  should  one  day  know  and  acknowledge  it. 
He  was  some  five  or  six  years  older  than  I  was,  but  in  our 
short  acquaintance  we  became  mutually  very  frank.  On 
one  occasion,  he  spoke  enthusiastically  about  a  departed 
literary  grandee,  and  used  some  expressions  which  led  me 
to  ask  him  whether  he  would  like  to  be  he.  He  turned  on 
me  a  flash  of  indignant,  almost  contemptuous  surprise,  as 
if  no  living,  thinking  being,  with  a  spark  of  soul  or  true 
ambition,  could  do  other  than  desire  to  be  that  man.  I 
said,  '  But  remember,  Hugh,  he  is  dead,  and  we  have  no 
evidence  that  he  is  with  the  Lord,  nor  are  his  writings  cal- 
culated to  save  any  souls,  or  to  keep  any  souls  in  the  right 
way.'  He  strode  on  doggedly  with  clenched  fist,  and  then 
suddenly  stopped  and  said,  '  It  would  be  well  always  to 
remember  that.' 

"  The  Rev.  Alexander  Stewart  was  the  minister  of  the 
parish.  His  fame  as  a  preacher  was  high.  On  my  return 
to  Edinburgh,  I  met  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  he  asked  me  where 
I  had  been  spending  my  summer.  I  said  at  Cromarty. 
4  Oh,'  he  exclaimed,  '  Stewart  is  the  best  preacher  in  the 
Church  of  Scotland.'  I  replied,  c  With  one  exception,  I 
think  so.'  His  retort  was  a  most  hilarious  laugh.  Hugh 
was  an  exceedingly  attentive  hearer,  and  a  frequent  associ- 
ate of  this  gifted  minister.  He  generally  occupied  the  cor- 
ner of  a  square  pew  in  the  front  of  the  gallery  of  the  parish 
church,  opposite  the  pulpit ;  and  as  the  sermon  proceeded 
he  might  be  seen  to  lean  forward,  and  fix  his  keen  eyes, 
from  under  their  remarkable  penthouses,  on  the  face  of  the 
preacher,  seeming  not  so  much  to  hear  the  sermon  as  to 
penetrate,  examine,  and  sift  the  man. 

"  He  was  always  investigating,  and,  as  we  walked  along, 
either  by  road  or  dry  channel  of  mountain  stream,  or  waded 
through  the  heather,  he  would  suddenly  interrupt  our  high 


886  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

argumentation  on  some  recondite  subject,  by  pulling  out  a 
stone  from  the  '  dry '  dyke,  to  examine  its  geological  char- 
acter, or  picking  up  a  pebble  from  the  bed  of  the  rivulet,  to 
note  its  travels  from  the  distant  upland,  to  which  its  native 
rock  belonged ;  or,  on  the  hill-side,  he  would  find  berries 
suitable  for  a  very  hungry  man's  lunch,  and  descant  on  the 
wild  botany  of  the  district ;  and  when  we  swam,  he  would, 
whilst  dressing,  keep  his  eyes  open  to  the  movements  of  the 
dwellers  in  the  deep,  or  amid  the  pools  and  crevices  of  the 
rocks.  The  cuttle-fish  suggested  opaque  learnedness,  which, 
far  from  enlightening  others,  only  seemed  to  afford  the  pos- 
sessor of  so  much  inky  knowledge  a  mode  of  escaping  the 
detection  of  his  weakness  ;  and  the  large  lobster,  hurrying 
off  with  one  big  claw  and  a  little  one,  suggested  the  self- 
sacrifice  necessary  to  safety,  taught  us  by  a  crustacean  who 
could  fling  off  his  leg  to  save  his  life. 

"  Hugh  had  built  a  house  for  his  mother  and  her  second 
family,  and  he  occupied  a  room  and  closet  in  the  upper 
story  ;  the  closet  was  fast  becoming  a  crowded  museum  of 
specimens  of  geology,  botany,  conchology,  etc.,  and  he  had 
a  good  many  books,  hardly  a  library.  He  used  to  read 
passages  of  a  book  he  was  engaged  in  writing,  and  courted 
criticism,  though  now  and  then  his  eye  flashed  ominously, 
if  the  critic  diverged  into  irreverent  fun. 

"  To  follow  so  daring  a  cragsman  had  for  me  the  zest  of 
danger,  and  he  would  sometimes  heighten  my  terrors  by  in- 
dulgence in  a  practical  humor  bordering  on  malice.  On  one 
occasion,  for  example,  we  had  to  ascend  almost  perpendicu- 
larly from  the  sea-beach,  which  had  become  impassable  by 
the  advance  of  the  tide  during  our  explorations, — Hugh, 
of  course,  in  advance,  to  show  the  way.  The  cliff  was 
some  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  feet  high. 
After  mounting  steadily  to  within  twenty  or  thirty  feet  of 
the  top,  we  arrived  at  a  perfectly  perpendicular  wall  of  solid 


MR.  ROBERTSON'S  RECOLLECTIONS.  387 

stone,  to  be  scaled  cat-fashion,  by  clinging  successively  to 
bits  of  clinging  ivy.  The  situation  was  anything  but 
pleasant,  and  Hugh  suddenly  startled  me  by  saying,  in 
what  I  believe  to  have  been  merely  an  assumed  tone  of 
doubt  and  concern :  '  I  can't  get  up  any  further.'  To  go 
down  safely  was  impossible ;  even  to  look  down  at  the 
creamy  edge  of  the  little  waves  beating  the  shore  immedi- 
ately beneath,  would  have  made  me  giddy.  I  mastered  my 
fears  as  well  as  I  could,  and  replied :  '  Never  mind ;  hold 
on  where  you  are,  and  I  will  climb  over  you  and  help  you 
up/  He  started  off,  and  was  in  an  instant  on  the  top.  I 
arrived  almost  at  the  same  moment,  and  threw  myself  on 
the  grass,  panting  out :  '  Hugh,  you  deserve  hanging  at  the 
very  least.'  He  was  always  investigating,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment may  have  forgotten  that  his  curious  inspection  of  my 
nervous  system 'might  have  cost  me  my  life.  He  seemed  to 
me  to  have  a  stern  pleasure  in  danger,  —  a  pleasure,  I  con- 
fess, I  was  quite  willing  to  forego, —  and  he  tried  to  educate 
his  companions  by  a  little  wholesome  exposure  and  risk. 
He  underrated  his  powers  to  please  by  agreeable  manner 
and  easy  conversation,  and  chose  to  force  admiration  by  his 
courage  and  energy. 

"  He  affected  (as  I  thought)  indifference  to  gentlemanly 
appearance  and  fashionable  manners,  and  adhered  to  a  cer- 
tain rusticity  of  aspect  and  style,  —  possibly  because  he 
dreaded  failure  in  any  effort  to  become  perfectly  polished. 
I  at  first  wondered  at  him,  then  I  was  deeply  interested  in 
him,  and  finally  I  became  much  attached  to  him.  As  our 
acquaintance  became  more  intimate,  and  our  rambles  longer 
and  more  numerous,  I  admired  his  powers  and  his  informa- 
tion more  and  more  ;  whilst  his  character,  which  seemed  to 
me  at  one  time  harsh  and  even  fierce  and  dangerous,  dis- 
solved into  romantic  heroism  and  almost  feminine  tender- 
ness. I  cannot  pretend  to  have  fathomed  and  mapped  out 


388  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

Hugh  Miller's  character  thirty-five  years  ago,  but  I  can  rec- 
ollect my  sentiments  towards  him  then,  and  what  I  attrib- 
uted to  him  as  the  justification  to  myself  of  my  admiration 
and  affection.  The  soft,  mellow  radiance  of  piety  and 
youthful  domestic  virtue  which  enveloped  him  filled  my 
heart  with  an  affection  which  has  never  grown  cold." 

In  the  letter  to  Miss  Dunbar  from  which  we  took  our  last 
quotation,  Miller  spoke  in  a  tone  almost  of  sharpness  of 
the  infrequency  of  her  letters,  urging  that  it  was  dispiriting 
to  write  without  any  hope  of  reply,  and  adding,  "  Must  I 
have  to  say  of  you  what  the  children  sitting  in  the  market- 
place had  to  say  of  their  companions :  '  We  have  piped  to 
you,  and  ye  have  not  danced ;  we  have  mourned,  and  ye 
have  not  lamented '  ? "  This  enables  us  to  understand  a 
passage  in  the  following  letter  from  Miss  Dunbar  to  Miller. 
It  is  inserted  here,  not  only  because  it  displays  the  delicate 
intelligence  and  sterling  worth  of  his  correspondent,  but 
because,  through  the  eyes  of  this  bright  and  gracious  lady, 
we  can  see  him  with  an  authentic  clearness  and  a  revealing 
sympathy  which  even  his  own  letters  do  not  afford :  — 

"  TORRES,  September  19,  1834. 

"  I  would  as  soon  suspect  you  of  murder  or  high  treason 
as  deem  you  careless  or  ungrateful.  I  only  wonder  that, 
embarked  as  you  now  are  in  an  ocean  of  occupation  and 
anxiety,  you  can  give  so  much  of  your  thought  and  time  to 
me.  And  yet,  differently  situated  as  we  are  at  this  moment, 
it  will  be  found  that  affection  has  nicely  adjusted  the  bal- 
ance between  us.  You  are  ceaselessly  employed,  asking  of 
one  minute  the  work  of  two,  and  anxious  .regarding  the 
result  of  your  scheme,  hoping  and  fearing  alternately,  and 
yet  you  can  devote  time  and  thought  to  me.  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  am  suffering  in  constant  and  still  increasing 


LETTER    FROM    MISS    BUNBAR.  389 

distress,  —  withdrawing  myself  as  I  best  may  from  all 
worldly  hopes  and  desires,  and  striving  to  fix  my  thoughts 
where  they  ought  to  rest ;  but  you  still  have  power  to 
call  them  back.  I  think  of  you  and  of  your  present  busi- 
ness, as  involving  your  future  fame  and  usefulness,  with 
an  interest,  a  pride,  a  solicitude,  which  I  find  no  other 
human  being  or  earthly  scheme  can  now  excite.  Death 
can  alone  render  my  heart  cold  to  you.  Among  many  sad 
thoughts  and  regrets  there  is  one  peculiarly  painful,  —  the 
thought  that,  confined  as  I  am  to  a  sick-room,  I  can  aid  you 
so  little  ;  nevertheless  I  do  what  I  can. 

"  Both  Mr.  Grant  and  Dr.  Brands  happened  to  be  with 
me  when  your  parcel  arrived.  They  enter  warmly  into  your 
scheme,  and  the  Miss  Cummings  of  May  not  less  warmly. 
You  have  stanch  friends,  too,  in  the  Messrs.  Andersons, 
who  have  anticipated  us,  I  find,  at  Dunphail,  with  Major 
Gumming  Bruce  ;  and  Sir  Thomas,  I  doubt  not,  is  active  in 
Edinburgh.  You  seem  to  have  started  in  a  highly  favorable 
time ;  but  you  must  not  tell  me  of  a  '  nervous  indolence 
creeping  over  }rou,'  —  you  who  are  so  much  the  delight  of 
all  who  know  you.  I  must  say  your  prospectus  did  not 
please  me  so  much  as  I  expected ;  you  cannot  do  other 
than  write  well,  but  there  are  scores  of  your  legends  which 
I  would  have  liked  better.  True,  your  reasoning  is  good 
and  ingenious,  but  still  it  is  reasoning.  I  often  question 
wrhether  your  book  will  ever  be  in  my  hand  ;  I  fear  not,  but 
1  shall  go  on  wishing  and  thinking  about  it  as  though  I 
were  certain  of  living  to  see  it. 

"And  so  you  have  been  on  many  excursions  of  late; 
why  should  a  deathlike  pang  shoot  across  me  at  the 
thought  ?  It  will  be  a  year  on  Friday  next  since  I  crossed 
over  from  Nairn  to  Cromarty,  and  you  were  not  in  the  way, 
nor  could  be  found  for  two  hours.  In  the  three  weeks  that 
followed,  oh,  how  much  I  enjoyed !  I  can  recall  all  our 


390  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

walks  together,  and  all  the  topics  on  which  we  conversed. 
But  why  should  such  recollections  disturb  or  distress  me  ? 
You  will  be  happy  with  other  friends  and  favorites ;  oh, 
yes,  yes,  you  will,  I  hope  and  wish  it,  —  and  you  will  bear 
me  in  mournful  remembrance,  though  you  will  be  nothing 
to  me  then.  But  I  shall  see  you  once  more,  —  I  may  hold 
out  for  months  yet ;  and  as  you  have  promised  to  come  to 
see  me,  you  will. 

"  But  why,  my  friend,  do  you  chide  me  for  not  writing 
you?  I  can  feel  the  awkwardness  of  your  situation  as  a 
correspondent,  in  writing  letter  after  letter  and  receiving 
no  reply ;  but  it  is  God  who  has  laid  his  chastening  hand 
upon  me,  —  do  not  reprove  me,  but  let  this  be  a  testimony 
of  my  willingness  to  write.  Oh,  I  have  many  things  to 
say  to  you  that  I  could  say  to  none  other,  for  I  think  that 
above  all  others  you  can  put  your  '  soul  in  my  soul's  stead.' 
Keep  my  manuscript  books  carefully.  I  wish  you  had 
them  all,  and  many  other  little  things ;  but  I  know  you 
will  need  no  tokens  to  remember  me  by.  How  happy  you 
would  make  me  if  you  would  call  upon  me  in  any  way  in 
which  I  could  really  serve  you.  How  do  you  manage  to 
live?  You  are  not  working  much,  and  must,  at  a  time  like 
the  present,  have  many  little  expenses :  do  you  want 
money?  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I  would  injure 
no  one  by  giving  to  you.  Away  with  your  high  notions  of 
what  you  deem  independence,  but  which,  I  assure  you,  has 
more  of  alloy  than  of  true  metal  in  it.  No  proper  feeling 
can  be  injured  by  an  accommodation  of  the  kind  I  propose. 
Now  be  not  offended ;  if  you  are,  I  shall  say  you  are  yet 
unacquainted  with  iny  heart." 

The  following  reply  at  once  gushed  from  Hugh  Miller's 
heart :  — 


THE    FIELDS    OF   THE    FUTURE.  391 

"  CROMARTY,  September  25,  1834. 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  your  truly  kind,  truly  ex- 
cellent letter  !  My  heart  bounded  to  my  lips,  as  opening  it 
I  exclaimed,  '  From  Miss  Dunbar's  own  hand ! '  and  I 
glanced  my  eyes  over  it  with  a  hurried  eagerness,  —  an 
intense  impatience  that  seemed  to  begrudge  the  minutes 
which  were  to  be  spent  in  the  slow  process  of  perusal,  and 
to  dfcsire  that  all  its  contents  might  be  stamped  upon  my 
mind  at  once.  Need  I  say  how  deeply  I  sympathize  with 
you  and  how  highly  I  esteem  you  ?  Often  do  my  thoughts 
carry  me  to  Forres  ;  I  seize  the  extended  hand,  and  then 
draw  in  my  chair  beside  you  ;  and,  though  my  heart  sinks 
when  I  see  how  pale  and  thin  you  appear,  I  am  again 
reassured  by  the  expression  of  your  eye  and  the  calm 
placidity  of  the  tones  in  which  you  address  me.  It  is 
surely  a  good  thing  to  be  enabled  to  look  forward  through 
the  clouds  and  darkness  of  our  present  state  of  being  to 
the  calm,  sunny  fields  of  the  future  ;  to  be  assured  that  the 
life  which  commenced  as  but  yesterday,  and  whose  events 
seem  huddled  together  as  if  they  were  the  occurrences  of 
one  short  day,  shall  never,  never  terminate,  but  continue  to 
go  on,  and  on,  and  on,  through  the  unreckoned  and  ever- 
succeeding  periods  of  an  eternity,  whose  further  edge  of 
boundary  God  himself  cannot  perceive.  And  is  it  not 
well,  my  dear  madam,  that  as  creatures  possessed  of  so 
quenchless  a  vitality,  our  affection  should  be  fixed  on  each 
other  and  on  Him  who  occupies  all  the  future  and  all  the 
past  ?  If  we  fix  them  on  objects  less  enduring  than  them- 
selves a  day  of  final  separation  must  come,  and  when  they 
depart  to  their  far  country  they  must  go  forth  wounded 
and  widowed,  —  still,  still  looking  back  and  halting  by  the 
way,  wishing,  and  weeping,  and  longing,  but  wishing  and 
weeping  and  longing  in  vain.  How  different  must  that 
journey  prove  to  those  whose  hearts  have  been  prepared  to 


892  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

love  their  God,  and  whose  affections  have  met  and  mingled 
with  those  of  their  fellows  !  They  will  go  onward,  assured 
of  meeting  with  him  ;  finding  the  stream  of  his  brightness 
increasing  the  nearer  they  approach  him ;  and,  reckoning 
the  amount  of  their  successions  of  happiness  by  other 
periods  of  duration  than  those  by  which  in  the  lower  world 
we  measure  our  days  of  languor  and  suffering,  they  shall 
say,  '  Our  God  is  with  us,  and  we  shall  be  joined  by*  our 
friends  earty  on  the  morrow.'  Much  as  I  sympathize  with 
you  and  grieve  for  your  sufferings,  I  find  there  is  much 
regarding  you  from  which  to  derive  comfort. 

"  Forgive  me  the  passage  in  my  last  by  which  I  was  so 
unfortunate  as  to  give  you  pain.  One  is  not  always  master 
of  one's  mood  ;  and  there  are  impatient,  unthinking  moods 
in  which  we  say  and  write  what  afterwards  we  wish  unsaid 
or  unwritten.  I  merely  meant  to  express  how  dispiriting  a 
thing  I  felt  it  to  be  to  write  without  the  hope  of  receiving 
a  reply ;  a  sudden  analogy  came  across  me,  and  I  em- 
bodied it  without  noting  that  it  gave  a  cast  of  meaning  to 
my  words  which  the  thought  I  meant  them  to  convey  did 
not  bear.  But  I  know  you  will  not  think  harshly  of  me. 

"For  the  last  fortnight  some  of  my  very  few  leisure 
hours  have  been  employed  in  collecting  geological  speci- 
mens for  my  kind  friend,  Mr.  George  Anderson,  —  one  of 
the  most  thorough-bred  geologists  in  the  north  of  Scotland. 
By  the  way,  I  see  from  the  newspapers  that  he  has  been 
highly  complimented  for  his  labors  in  this  department,  at 
the  great  scientific  meeting  at  Edinburgh.  Some  of  the 
specimens  I  have  procured  are  exceedingly  curious  ;  they 
contain  the  petrified  remains  of  animals  that  now  no  longer 
exist  except  in  a  fossil  state,  —  bits  of  charcoal,  pieces  of 
wood,  and  nondescript  substances  which  one  can  hardly 
refer  to  either  the  animal  or  vegetable  world.  Of  the  sev- 
eral animal  tribes  the  very  curious  shell-fish  termed  the 


GEOLOGY.  393 

cornu  ammonis  abounds  most ;  but,  though  at  one  period 
the  most  numerous  of  all  the  testaceous  tribes  of  the 
country,  it  is  now  no  longer  to  be  found  except  as  a  fossil, 
deeply  embedded  in  limestone  or  bituminous  shale,  and 
buried  under  huge  hills  of  clay  and  gravel.  There  are 
grounds,  indeed,  for  the  belief  that  the  race  of  man,  and 
almost  all  the  tribes  of  animals  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainted, have  come  into  being  since  it  ceased  to  exist ;  at 
least  no  remains  of  the  living  tribes  have  been  found  in  the 
beds  in  which  the  cornu  abounds.  Like  the  nautilus,  it 
was  a  sailing  animal,  and,  though  different  in  form,  its 
structure  seems  to  have  been  nearly  the  same.  We  find  it 
partitioned  in  the  same  way  by  little  cross  walls,  which 
divide  the  cavity  within  into  a  number  of  minute  cells,  by 
means  of  which  and  by  a  power  it  must  have  possessed  of 
altering  its  gravity,  by  nearly  vacating  or  occupying  these 
to  the  full,  it  seems  to  have  moved  upwards  or  downwards 
at  pleasure.  The  inner  part  of  the  shell  seems,  from  the 
more  perfect  impressions  of  it  which  I  have  met  with,  to 
have  been  of  a  pearly  lustre ;  the  outer  is  ridged  and  fur- 
rowed with  much  regularity,  and  there  is  at  least  as  much 
elegance  in  its  general  contour  as  in  that  of  the  Ionic 
volute,  which  it  nearly  resembles.  But  why  so  much 
beauty  when  there  was  no  eye  of  man  to  see  and  admire  ? 
Does  it  not  seem  strange  that  the  bays  of  our  coasts  should 
have  been  speckled  by  fleets  of  beautiful  little  animals, 
with  their  tiny  sails  spread  to  the  wind  and  their  pearly 
colors  glancing  to  the  sun,  when  there  was  no  intelligent 
eye  to  look  abroad  and  delight  in  their  loveliness  ?  Of  all 
the  sciences  there  is  none  which  furnishes  so  many  para- 
doxical facts  and  appearances  as  geology.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Stewart  returned  last  week  from  Strathpeffer,  in 
improved  but  still  rather  delicate  health,  and  preached  one 
half  of  the  day  last  Sabbath.  His  discourse,  though  in  a 


394  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

lower  and  more  subdued  tone  than  some  of  his  more  pow- 
erful ones,  was  truly  beautiful,  —  full  of  exquisite  senti- 
ment and  lovely  description ;  and  there  was  an  air  of 
tenderness  about  it  which  rarely  characterizes  his  composi- 
tions. He  spoke  of  the  finely  fibred  and  wonderfully  com- 
plicated frame  of  man,  of  its  liability  to  derangement,  and 
its  capacity  of  pain ;  of  the  weariness  of  sleepless  nights 
and  the  heavy  yet  restless  languor  of  tedious  days.  He 
spoke,  too,  of  the  solitude  of  suffering,  —  a  solitude  com- 
plete and  unbroken  even  in  the  midst  of  society ;  of  the 
gloom  which  to  the  sufferer  seems  to  hang  over  all  the 
present,  and  which  deepens  into  "thick  darkness  as  he  looks 
towards  the  future.  And  where,  he  asked,  shall  we  look 
in  such  circumstances  for  comfort  ?  Where  but  to  Him  who 
is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  our  frame,  —  acquainted 
with  it,  not  only  as  God  the  Creator  of  it,  but  also  as  man 
the  inhabitant  of  it ;  not  only  as  him  who  can  look  into  all 
our  sufferings,  but  as  him  who  entered  into  them  all ;  him 
of  the  lacerated  hands  and  feet  and  the  pierced  side, — 
whose  forehead  was  cinctured  with  thorns,  and  over  whose 
back  the  ploughers  have  driven  long  furrows.  Mr.  Stew- 
art's recent  experience  has  not  been  without  its  use  to  him, 
—  his  sufferings  have  taught  him  the  language  of  consola- 
tion. 

"  Accept  my  warmest  thanks  for  your  kind,  generous 
offer.  It  would  prove  a  poor  return  for  your  goodness, 
were  I  to  chide  you  for  what  ought  so  thoroughly  to  awaken 
my  gratitude.  Believe,  if  I  do  not  avail  myself  of  what 
you  so  frankly  tender  me,  it  is  out  of  no  proud  or  improper 
feeling." 

Mrs.  Grant,  of  Laggan,  suggested  about  this  time  to  her 
friend,  Miss  Dunbar,  with  a  view  to  Miller's  advancement 
in  life,  that  he  might  do  the  "  blocking  work  "  for  a  young 
sculptor  "likely  to  rise  to  eminence."  Mrs.  Grant  referred 


BARON   HUME'S    COMPLIMENT.  395 

to  "  Allan  Cunningham's  success  in  doing  the  blocking 
work  for  Chantrey,"  by  way  of  illustrating  the  promotion 
intended  for  Miller.  On  this  Miss  Dunbar  wrote  to  Hugh : 
"  I  could  not  well  take  it  on  me  to  reply  to  what  she  sug- 
gests without  a  reference  to  yourself,  though  I  dare  say  I 
anticipate  your  answer,  and  so  I  write.  Pardon  the  terms 
she  uses  as  applicable  to  you,  and  believe  me,  that  neither 
in  speaking  nor  writing  of  you  have  I  expressed  myself  in 
a  way  to  sanction  them.  I  had  honesty  and  delicacy 
enough  not  to  assume  the  airs  of  a  lady-patroness ;  I  ever 
spoke  of  you  as  my  friend,  and  as  proud  that  you  were 
such."  In  the  same  letter  Miss  Dunbar  mentioned  that 
Baron  Hume,  nephew  to  the  historian,  pronounced  by 
Kemble  "positively  the  first"  critic  of  the  day,  had  seen 
the  prospectus  of  Miller's  book.  "  He  perused  it,"  she 
adds,  "with  much  interest  and  no  little  surprise,  and  states 
as  his  opinion  that  the  writer  excels  in  that  classical  style 
which  many  well-known  writers  of  the  present  day,  so  far 
from  attaining  to,  do  not  seem  even  to  understand." 
Hugh,  in  his  reply,  speaks  of  Baron  Hume  before  touching 
on  Mrs.  Grant's  proposal. 

"  CROMARTT,  October  25,   1834. 

"  Never  was  my  little  remnant  of  modesty  in  such 
danger  as  it  has  been  exposed  to  by  the  critical  remark  of 
Baron  Hume.  But,  if  at  all  worthy  of  the  compliment  it 
conveys,  I  owe  my  merit  chiefly  to  accident ;  to  my  having 
kept  company  with  the  older  English  writers,  —  the  Addi- 
sons,  Popes,  and  Eobertsons  of  the  last  century, —  at  a  time 
when  I  had  no  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  authors  of  the  present  time.  And  the  tone  of  these 
earlier  writers  I  have,  I  dare  say,  contrived  in  some  meas- 
ure to  catch,  just  as  in  my  spoken  language  I  have  caught 
the  tone  of  our  Cromarty  Scotch. 


396  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"I  am  much  gratified  by  the  kind  solicitude  of  Mrs. 
Grant ;  but  you  seem  to  have  anticipated  my  reply  to  what 
she  suggests.  Though  I  have  sometimes  amused  my 
leisure  hours  with  sculpture,  my  best  efforts  in  this  depart- 
ment have  been  only  half-efforts ;  I  made  them  without 
either  hope  or  care,  and  saw  them  balked  without  disap- 
pointment ;  and  though,  perhaps,  rather  a  superior  work- 
man as  workmen  go,  I  have  become  such  I  hardly  know 
how,  and  never  think  of  my  profession,  except  as  fortunate 
in  that  it  does  not  employ  my  mind,  and  that  I  can  prose- 
cute it  in  the  open  air.  These  are  not  the  views  of  one 
destined  to  excel  as  a  sculptor ;  and,  as  for  a  mason,  I  am 
well  enough  as  I  am.  My  ambition  points  in  a  different 
direction  ;  and  when  the  public  shall  have  decided  regard- 
ing my  modicum  of  literary  ability,  should  the  editorship 
of  some  magazine  or  paper  come  my  way,  I  shall  cheer- 
fully resign  the  mallet  altogether ;  though  till  such  an 
opportunity  occurs  I  shall  grip  fast  to  its  rough  handle  as 
my  only  hold  of  independence.  Allan  Cunningham's  situa- 
tion is  considerably  different  from  the  one  referred  to  by 
Mrs.  Grant.  Chantrey  is  not  merely  a  sculptor  ;  he  is  also 
a  contractor  on  a  large  scale  for  sepulchral  monuments, 
and  employs  many  workmen ;  Allan  is  his  foreman,  and 
manages  the  under  details  of  his  business  ;  were  he  merely 
a  sculptor,  the  poet  would  hold  only  the  place  of  one  of  the 
mechanics  whom  he  superintends.  Favor  me,  when  you 
write  Mrs.  Grant,  by  tendering  her  my  best  thanks  for  her 
suggestion,  and  the  interest  she  takes  in  my  welfare,  and 
oblige  me  by  stating  that  I  cannot  avail  myself  of  the 
former.  But  why.  my  dear  madam,  apologize  for  the  terms 
she  employs  in  speaking  of  me  ?  Trust  me,  I  am  not  one 
of  those  who  repay  with  insolence  the  notice  by  which  they 
are  honored,  The  much  kindness  you  have  shown  me,  and 
the  confidence  you  have  reposed  in  me,  have  not  yet  made 


HIS   INDEPENDENCE.  397 

me  forget  our  respective  places  in  society ;  and  though  no 
one  entertains  a  more  sincere  love  of  independence,  or 
more  carefully  avoids  any  imputation  of  meanness,  it 
would  not  cost  me  a  single  blush  were  the  whole  world  to 
know  how  much  cause  you  have  given  me  to  be  grateful." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

TWO   LETTERS    ON   RELIGION. 

HE  two  letters  addressed  to  Mr.  William  Smith, 
Forres,  are  without  question  among  the  most  im- 
portant Miller  ever  wrote.  They  form  a  supple- 
ment to  that  portion  of  his  spiritual  history  which 
embraced  his  period  of  indifference  and  semi-scepticism, 
and  contain  not  only  an  explicit  confession  of  faith,  but  a 
statement  of  that  intellectual  basis  on  which  it  was  for  him 
a  necessity  that  his  faith  should  rest.  Reticent  as  he  was 
in  all  that  related  to  his  soul's  condition,  —  sensitively 
averse  to  the  unveiling  to  human  eyes  of  his  spiritual  ex- 
perience,—  he  would  probably  never  have  written  such 
letters,  had  not  an  occasion  occurred  which  constrained  him 
to  overcome  every  scruple.  A  friend  lay  ill,  perhaps  unto 
death ;  it  seemed  possible  to  Hugh  that  he  might  minister 
to  his  spirit's  health  and  his  eternal  salvation ;  and  he 
yielded  to  the  impulse  of  affection  and  the  mandate  of 
duty.  The  scheme  of  religion  which  he  unfolds  in  the  let- 
ters is  that  of  simple  acceptance  of  Christ  for  salvation,  as 
he  is  offered  in  the  Gospel, —  acceptance  with  the  heart  as  well 
as  the  head,  acceptance  with  clear  consciousness  that  the 
difficulties  of  the  intellect  cannot  be  wholly  removed.  The 
religion  of  Miller  was  to  cling  close  to  Christ,  to  die  with 
Christ,  to  rise  with  Christ,  to  wear  with  him  the  crown  of 
thorns,  and  to  receive  from  him  the  crown  of  glory. 

The  idea  formerly  thrown  out  by  Miller,  that  Christianity 

398 


TWO    LETTERS   ON    RELIGION.  399 

suggests  objections  so  many  and  so  obvious  that  common 
sense  would  not  have  permitted  its  invention  by  man, 
receives  in  these  letters  its  balance  and  counterpart  in  the 
hypothesis  that  the  adaptation  of  Christianity  to  man's 
wants  is  so  exquisite  and  its  evidence  so  strong,  that  its 
obvious  offences  to  mere  human  reason  tend  to  prove  that 
it  is  divine. 

From  a  biographic  point  of  view  the  letters  have  a 
special  interest  as  showing  the  tenacity  with  which  Miller 
retained  thoughts  which  had  once  been  deliberately  accepted 
into  his  intellectual  system.  The  illustration  of  the  work- 
ing of  the  atonement  of  Christ,  given  long  subsequently  in 
the  "  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  is  but  a  slight  expansion 
of  that  which  he  here  lays  before  his  friend,  and  the  thesis 
maintained,  that  man  can  apprehend  facts  and  results  in 
God's  universe,  whether  physical  or  spiritual,  but  not  the 
constructive  principles  and  processes  by  which  they  are 
brought  about,  is  worked  out  in  a  chapter  on  the  Discover- 
able and  the  Revealed  in  the  "  Testimony  of  the  Rocks," 
which  is  perhaps  the  most  valuable  that  Hugh  Miller 
ever  penned. 

"  CROMARTY,  August  5,  1835. 

"  MY  DEAR  WILLIAM  :  —  I  need  not  tell  you  how  famous 
Cromarty  is  for  its  hasty  reports,  or  on  how  slender  a  foun- 
dation the  imagination  of  the  townsfolks  sometimes  con- 
trives to  build.  I  must  needs  tell  you,  however,  for  the 
circumstance  forms  my  only  apology  for  now  writing  you, 
that  the  last  story  current  among  us  affected  me  more 
deeply  than  any  of  its  class  ever  did  before.  On  your  late 
severe  attack,  your  brother,  the  doctor,  was  called  hastily 
to  Forres,  and  the  story  went  that  you  were  dead.  I  never 
before  knew  how  much  I  valued  and  esteemed  you  ;  the 
thought,  too,  that  one  with  whom  I  had  so  often  conversed, 
and  with  whose  mind  I  was  so  thoroughly  acquainted,  had 


400  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

passed  the  dark  bourn  which  separates  this  world  from  the 
other,  had  something  inexpressibly  solemn  and  melancholy 
in  it.  I  felt  for  the  time  that,  disguise  the  fact  as  we  may, 
the  main  business  of  this  life  consists  in  preparing  for 
another,  and  conscience  was  not  quite  silent  when  I  remem- 
bered that,  though  you  and  I  had  beaten  together  over 
many  an  interesting  topic,  the  most  interesting  of  all  had 
been  omitted.  You  remember  the  fable  of  the  wise  men  who 
were  permitted  to  make  a  three  days'  visit  to  the  moon  that 
they  might  report  to  our  lower  world  regarding  its  plants 
and  animals,  and  who,  on  their  return,  had  to  confess  that 
they  had  squandered  their  time  in  drinking  with  gay  young 
men  and  dancing  with  beautiful  women,  and  had  only  re- 
marked that  the  trees  and  sky  of  the  planet,  when  seen 
casually  through  a  window,  very  much  resembled  those  of 
our  own.  Alas,  for  the  application  of  this  ingenious  story ! 
"  There  are  few  men  who  do  not  at  some  time  or  other 
think  seriously  of  the  future  state,  or  who  have  not  formed 
some,  at  least,  theoretic  set  of  notions  regarding  the  best 
mode  of  preparing  for  it.  Man  was  born  to  anticipate  a 
hereafter  ;  he  is  a  religious  animal  by  the  very  constitution 
of  his  nature,  and  the  thousand  forms  of  superstition  which 
still  overspread  the  world  and  darken  every  page  of  its  his- 
tory are  just  so  many  proofs  of  this.  It  has  often  struck 
me  that  the  infidel,  when  in  his  assaults  on  revelation  he 
draws  largely  from  this  store  of  delusion,  sadly  mistakes 
his  argument ;  every  false  religion  which  has  sprung  out 
of  the  nature  of  man  shows  us,  not  surely  that  there  is  no 
true  religion,  but  that  we  stand  in  need  of  a  true  one  ; 
every  mythologic  folly  and  absurdity  should  convince  us 
that  we  need  an  infallible  guide.  Regarded  in  this  light 
the  c  Shaster '  and  the  '  Koran '  are  substantial  proofs  of  how 
ill  we  could  do  without  the  Bible ;  and  Paganism  and 
Mahometism  powerfully  recommend  Christianity.  You, 


FALSE    RELIGIONS.  401 

my  dear  William,  to  whom  it  has  been  given  to  possess  an 
inquiring  and  reflecting  mind,  must  have  often  thought  of 
the  final  destinies  of  man ;  I  myself  have  observed  in  you 
much  of  that  respect  for  sacred  things  which  is  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  an  ingenuous  nature  ;  but  there  is  perhaps 
clanger  that  your  very  ingenuity  and  acuteness  might  have 
led  you  into  error.  Christianity  is  emphatically  termed  the 
wisdom  of  God,  but  it  is  not  on  a  first  examination  that  a 
reasoning  mind  can  arrive  at  the  evidence  of  its  being  such  ; 
on  the  contrary,  some  of  its  main  doctrines  seem  opposed 
to  the  more  obvious  principles  of  common  sense  ;  and  this 
quite  in  the  same  way  that,  before  the  days  of  Newton,  it 
would  have  seemed  contrary  to  these  principles  to  allege 
that  the  whiteness  of  light  was  occasioned  by  a  combina- 
tion of  the  most  vivid  colors,  or  that  the  planets  were  held 
in  their  orbits  by  the  law  which  impelled  a  falling  stone 
towards  the  ground.  Now  this  is  exactly  what  we  might 
expect  of  the  true  religion.  A  religion  made  by  rational 
men  —  many  Deists,  you  know,  were  eminently  such,  and 
we  may  instance  theirs — will  be,  like  themselves,  rational 
and  easily  understood  ;  but  this  very  facility  is  a  conclusive 
proof  that  it  had  its  origin  in  the  mind  of  man.  It  is  like 
all  his  other  works,  —  like  the  clocks  and  watches  and 
steam-engines  of  his  construction,  —  easily  understood,  and 
easily  imitated  ;  but  it  is  not  thus  with  Christianity,  nor  is 
it  thus  with  the  great  machine  of  the  universe.  Let  us,  my 
dear  William,  take  a  brief  survey  of  some  of  the  main  doc- 
trines of  this  religion ;  they  concern  us  so  nearly-  that  it 
may  be  fatal  to  misunderstand  them. 

"  The  invariable  reply  of  the  apostles  of  our  Saviour  to 
that  most  important  of  all  queries,  c  What  shall  I  do  to  be 
saved  ? '  was,  c  Believe  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.'  Belief 
seems  to  be,  if  I  may  so  speak,  the  main  condition  of  man's 
acceptance  :  but  belief  in  what  or  whom  ?  in  a  person  who 
26 


402  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

is  at  once  God  and  Man,  and  who  thus,  to  the  perfection 
of  a  Divine  nature,  adds  the  feelings  of  a  human  heart. 
Now  there  is  something  amazing  in  this,  something  which, 
for  its  exquisite  fitness  to  our  moral  and  sentient  constitu- 
tion, is  worthy  the  conception  of  a  God.  Observe,  my  dear 
William,  the  false  religions  of  the  world,  and  you  will  find 
that  they  run  into  two  opposite  extremes.  In  the  artificial 
religions  which  have  been  formed  by  the  intellect  of  man, 
God  is  represented  as  a  mere  abstraction  of  wisdom  and 
power.  He  is  the  Great  First  Cause  of  the  philosopher, 
and  it  is  scarcely  more  possible  for  the  human  heart  to  love 
him  as  such  than  it  is  for  him  to  love  any  of  the  great  sec- 
ond causes,  such  as  the  sun  with  its  light  and  heat,  or  the 
law  of  gravitation.  And  hence  the  coldness  and  utter 
inefficacy  of  all  such  religions,  whether  known  under  the 
name  of  philosophical  Deism  or  Socinian  Christianity ; 
they  are  totally  unfitted  to  the  nature  of  man.  The  relig- 
ions of  the  other  class  are  rather  the  offspring  of  passion 
than  intellect ;  they  arise  in  those  obscure  and  remote  ages 
when  unenlightened  man  created  his  gods  in  his  own  image. 
What  was  Jupiter  or  his  son  Hercules,  or  what  their  com- 
panions in  the  court  of  Olympus,  the  Dianas,  Venuses,  or 
Minervas  with  which  the  old  poets  have  brought  us 
acquainted,  but  human  creatures  bearing  the  very  mould 
and  impression  of  their  worshippers?  And  such  deities 
could  be  loved  and  feared  just  in  the  way  one  human  creat- 
ure can  love  or  fear  another ;  the  belief  in  them  powerfully 
influenced  the  conduct,  but  their  worship,  as  it  originated 
in  the  darkened  human  heart,  was  a  worship  of  impurity. 
Observe  with  what  a  truly  godlike  wisdom  Christianity  is 
formed  to  avoid  the  opposite  extremes  of  these  two  classes, 
and  how  it  yet  embraces  more  than  the  philosophy  of  the 
one,  and  more  than  the  warmth  of  the  other :  the  object  of 


THE    PLAN    OF    REDEMPTION.  403 

our  worship  is  at  once  God,  the  First  Great  Cause,  and  the 
man  Jesus  Christ,  our  brother. 

"  But  not  merely  must  we  believe  in  Christ  as  God,  but 
also  as  our  Saviour ;  as  the  restorer  of  our  moral  nature, 
and  our  sacrifice  or  atonement.  There  are  wonderful 
Janus-like  nrysteries  here,  —  inexplicable  in  their  one 
aspect  as  they  regard  God,  though  simple  and  easy  in  the 
other  as  they  regard  man.  Perhaps  an  illustration  from  the 
human  frame  may  serve  to  explain  my  meaning.  Need  I 
remind  you,  who  are  an  anatomist,  and  acquainted  with 
Paley  to  boot,  of  the  admirable  adaptation  of  the  human 
frame  to  the  various  ends  for  which  it  was  created,  or  how 
easy  it  is  for  a  person  of  even  ordinary  capacity  to  be  made 
to  perceive  this  adaptation  ?  Almost  any  one  can  see  how 
fairly  and  beautifully  the  machine  works,  —  but  who,  on  the 
other  hand,  can  conceive  of  the  higher  principles  on  which 
it  is  constructed?  Who  can  know  anything  of  the  work- 
ings of  the  brain  as  the  organ  of  thought,  or  of  the  opera- 
tions of  the  nerves  as  the  seats  of  feeling ;  of  how  the 
chyle  is  chosen  by  its  thousand  blind  mouths,  and  ever\^ 
other  fluid  rejected  ;  of  how  one  gland  should  secrete  a 
liquor  so  unlike  that  secreted  by  another,  —  of,  in  short, 
any  of  the  thousand  phenomena  of  our  animal  nature  when 
we  trace  them  towards  their  first  cause  ?  The  working  of 
the  machine  is  simple,  its  construction  we  find  to  be  inex- 
plicably mysterious.  Now  it  is  thus  with  Christianity.  No 
one  can  understand  how  the  sufferings  of  the  Saviour  satisfy 
the  justice  of  God,  —  that  regards,  if  I  may  so  speak,  the 
construction  of  the  scheme ;  but  every  one  who  examines 
may  see  how  wonderfully  these  vicarious  sufferings  are 
suited  to  the  nature  and  the  wants  of  man,  —  for  that 
regards  its  working.  But  it  is  not  in  the  limits  of  so  brief 
a  composition  as  a  letter  that  such  a  subject  can  be  dis- 
cussed. 


404  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

"  May  I  recommend  to  you,  my  dear  William,  to  lay  bold 
on  this  Saviour  as  the  way,  and  the  truth,  and  the  life  ?  He 
is  willing  and  able  to  save  to  the  uttermost  all  who  trust  in 
him.  You  suffer  from  pain  and  dejection  ;  he  suffered  from 
pain  and  dejection  also,  and  hence  his  wonderful  fitness  to 
be  the  God  and  Saviour  of  a  race  born 'to  anguish  and 
sorrow.  Not  only  does  he  know  our  weaknesses  as  God, 
but  he  s}^mpathizes  in  them  as  man.  Forgive  me  the  free- 
dom with  which  I  write  you,  —  it  is  as  a  friend,  —  as  one 
foolish  and  careless,  and  often  so  wrapped  up  in  the  dreams 
of  life  as  to  forget  its  real  businesses,  but  also  as  one  con- 
vinced that  the  Saviour  can,  through  his  Spirit,  make  wise 
unto  salvation,  and  that  to  secure  an  interest  in  him  is  to 
possess  a  righteousness  that  is  perfect,  and  to  have  every 
sin  forgiven  through  an  atonement  that  is  complete.  May 
I  ask,  my  dear  William,  that  when  you  address  yourself  to 
him,  —  and,  oh,  he  is  willing  to  hear  and  ready  to  help,  — 
3^011  will  put  up  one  petition  for  your  affectionate  friend, 
Hugh  Miller." 

"  CKOMARTY,  August  27,  1835. 

"  MY  DEAR  WILLIAM  :  —  I  have  learned  from  your 
brother  that  you  are  still  confined  to  your  room.  Believe 
me,  I  sympathize  with  you  very  sincerely ;  and  it  is  in  the 
hope  of  helping  to  enliven  your  solitude  for  at  least  a  few 
brief  minutes  that  I  again  avail  myself  of  a  leisure  hour  in 
which  to  write  you.  I  know  from  experience  that  there  is 
no  solitude  like  that  of  a  sick-chamber,  —  it  wears  away  the 
poor  remnant  of  spirits  that  indisposition  spares  to  us  ;  but 
it  will  not  render  the  sense  of  this  loneliness  weightier  to 
you  to  learn  that  an  old  friend,  though  also  a  powerless 
one,  continues  to  regard  you  with  sympathy  and  esteem. 
It  is  a  better  assurance,  however,  that  He  who  is  more 
thoroughly  your  friend  than  any  one  else,  and  who  can 


CHRISTIANITY    ABOVE    REASON.  405 

sympathize  with  you  more  deeply,  is  possessed  of  a  power 
that  has,  no  limits. 

"Your  brother  hinted  to  me  that  you  are  not  unwilling  I 
should  recur  to  the  subject  of  my  last.  I  feel,  my  dear 
William,  that  I  am  unworthy  to  approach  a  theme  so 
sacred  ;  I  am  also  too  little  impressed  with  it,  too  little 
in  love  with  it ;  but  I  know  of  its  importance,  and  I 
believe  in  its  truth.  In  one  respect,  too,  we  may  be  better 
fitted  for  conference  with  each  other  on  the  doctrines  of 
religion  than  either  of  us  would  be  with  minds  who  had 
never  doubted  of  them.  I  know  you  are  not  unacquainted 
with  infidel  objections,  —  you  are  familiar  with  some  of  the 
most  Insidious  writings  of  Voltaire ;  I  am  intimate  with 
the»e  also,  and  with  those  of  many  a  sceptic  besides.  And 
so,  as  we  can  approach  our  subject  over  nearly  the  same 
ground,  it  is  surely  not  irrational  to  expect  that  it  may  pre- 
sent itself  to  us  in  nearly  the  same  points  of  view. 

"  I  think  I  remarked  to  you  in  my  last  letter  that  Chris- 
tianity is  no  common-sense  religion ;  were  it  such,  it  would 
have  little  in  common  with  the  other  marvellous  workings 
of  Him  who  devised  it,  as  these  are  shown  in  all  he  has 
made,  and  in  his  mode  of  governing  all.  But  do  not  infer 
from  this,  as  some  infidels  do,  tacitly  at  least,  that  to  the 
human  comprehension  the  absurdities  of  false  religions 
and  the  mysteries  of  Christianity  are  placed  on  a  similar 
level.  Between  what  cannot  be  understood  because  it  has 
no  meaning,  and  what  cannot  be  understood  because  it 
surpasses  the  grasp  of  our  minds,  there  not  only  obtains  an 
infinite  difference,  but  a  difference  fully  cognizable  by  the 
human  intellect.  The  scribblings  of  a  child  and  the  abstru- 
ser  calculations  of  a  Newton  or  La  Place  would  not  appear 
equally  unmeaning  to  an  attentive  observer,  however 
humble  his  powers ;  he  could  not  but  see  now  and  then 
little  breaks  of  sense  in  the  mysteries  of  the  one  and  won- 


406  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

derfiil  effects  produced  by  them,  which  would  most  effectu- 
ally distinguish  them  from  the  nothingness  of  the  other.. 
And  it  is  thus  with  Christianity.  We  get  occasional 
glimpses  of  its  meaning,  and  see  instances  of  its  power  that 
may  well  enable  us  to  distinguish  between  it  and  the 
4  Shaster  'and 4  Koran.'  Its  adaptation  to  the  nature  of  man  is 
truly  exquisite.  There  is  a  pretty  story  in  Kames' 4  Art  of 
Thinking,'  introduced  by  the  philosopher  for  a  very  differ- 
ent purpose,  which  will  in  part  enable  us  to  conceive  of 
this.  Two  men  who  fought  in  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne  — 
the  one  a  petty  officer,  the  other  a  private  soldier  —  had 
been  friends  and  comrades  for  years,  but,  quarrelling  on 
some  unlucky  love  affair,  they  became  bitter  enemies.  The 
officer  made  a  natural  though  ungenerous  use  of  his  author- 
ity, in  continually  annoying  and  persecuting  the  other, 
whom  he  almost  fretted  into  madness,  and  who  was  often 
heard  to  swear  that  he  would  die  to  be  avenged  on  him. 
Both  were  men  of  known  bravery,  and  on  an  occasion  of 
some  dangerous  service,  both  were  chosen  to  be  of  the  party 
selected  to  attempt  it.  But  the  attempt  was  unsuccessful, 
and  the  officer  was  struck  down  by  a  ball  in  the  retreat. 
4  Ah,  and  will  you  leave  me  here  to  perish?'  he  exclaimed, 
as  his  old  companion  rushed  past  him.  The  appeal  was 
irresistible  ;  the  poor  injured  man  returned,  and,  raising  his 
wounded  enemy,  he  bore  him  off  amid  a  storm  of  shot  and 
shell.  And  he  had  just  reached  what  seemed  to  be  a  place 
of  safety,  when  he  was  struck  by  a  chance  ball  and  fell 
dead  under  his  burden.  But  his  fate  seemed  an  enviable 
one  compared  with  that  of  the  wounded  man.  He  rose,  for- 
getful of  his  wound,  and,  tearing  his  hair,  and  flinging  him- 
self on  the  body,  he  burst  out  into  the  most  heart-rending 
lamentations.  For  two  days  he  refused  all  sustenance,  still 
calling  on  his  companion,  and  ever  exclaiming,  4  Hast  thou 
died  for  me  who  treated  thee  so  barbarously  ! '  and  he  ex- 


FITNESS   OF    CHRISTIANITY.  407 

pired  on  the  third,  the  victim  of  mingled  grief  and  remorse. 
Do  you  not  perceive,  my  dear  William,  that  the  principle 
which  the  story  unfolds  lies  deep  in  our  nature  ?  Nothing 
so  prostrates  the  pride  of  man  or  so  stings  him  to  the  heart 
as  a  return  of  benefits  for  injuries,  —  of  great  good  for  great 
evil.  In  the  expressive  language  of  Scripture,  it  is  heaping 
live  coals  on  the  head,  and  to  blow  up  these  to  a  tenfold 
intensity  that  the  hardest  heart  may  melt  under  them,  it  is 
necessary  that  the  injured  benefactor,  instanced  in  the  story, 
should  die  for  his  enemy.  Need  I  attempt  an  application, 
or  point  oiit  to  you  with  what  marvellous,  God-like  wisdom 
Christianity  appeals  to  the  principle  described  ?  '  Perad- 
venture  for  a  good  man/  says  the  Apostle,  '  some  would 
even  dare  to  die  ;  but  God  commended  his  love  towards  us, 
in  that,  while  we  were  yet  sinners,  Christ  died  for  us.' 

"  I  am  sorry  we  should  have  missed  so  many  opportuni- 
ties of  conversing  on  this  subject ;  little  can  be  done  for  it 
in  the  limits  of  a  letter ;  and  besides,  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation, doubts  may  be  stated  and  cleared  which,  though 
they  may  weigh  heavily  on  your  mind,  cannot  be  antici- 
pated by  mine.  It  must  have  struck  you  as  something  very 
mysterious  in  the  scheme  of  Redemption  that  man,  instead 
of  having  to  trust  to  his  own  virtues  for  reward,  and  his 
own  repentance  for  pardon,  must  look  exclusively  to  the 
righteousness  and  atonement  of  the  Saviour.  And  yet  so 
important  is  this  doctrine,  that  the  scheme  of  Salvation  is 
inefficient  without  it ;  for,  for  what  other  cause  did  the 
Saviour  come  into  the  world,  or  in  what  other  sense  could 
he  be  said  to  die  for  us  ?  I  have  seen  much  of  wl^at  may 
be  called  the  working  of  this  doctrine,  and,  unable  as  I  am 
to  comprehend  it  in  the  abstract,  have  admired  its  wonder- 
ful adaptation  to  the  nature  and  wants  of  man.  There  is 
no  place  where  its  importance  can  be  better  appreciated 
than  beside  a  death-bed.  In  the  closing  scene  of  life,  man's 


408  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

boasted  virtues  become,  in  most  instances,  so  intangible 
that  they  elude  his  grasp ;  and  his-  sins,  however  little 
noted  before,  start  up  around  him  like  so  many  threatening 
spectres,  to  call  up  all  his  remorse  for  the  past  and  all  his 
fears  for  the  future.  It  is  then  that  the  scheme  of  Redemp- 
tion appears  worthy  of  the  infinite  wisdom  and  infinite 
goodness  of  a  God ;  that  the  righteousness  of  Him,  who 
ever  went  about  doing  good,  appears  an  inexhaustible  fund 
to  which  we  may  apply  ;  that  the  agony  in  the  garden,  the 
mockeries  and  scourgings  in  the  hall,  the  inconceivable  suf- 
ferings and  shame  of  the  cross,  array  themselves  on  the 
side  of  mercy,  and  sum  up  efficacy  enough  to  annihilate 
every  sin.  It  is  when  every  minor  light  of  comfort  is  ex- 
tinguished that  the  Saviour  shines  forth,  and  more  than 
compensates  for  them  all. 

"  So  much  for  the  fitness  of  this  scheme.  I  have  stated 
that,  regarded  in  the  abstract,  it  surpasses  my  comprehen- 
sion ;  but  do  not  suppose  from  this  that  it  is  more  sur- 
rounded by  difficulties  than  any  of  the  many  schemes  of 
religion  which  men  have  opposed  to  it.  The  simplicity  of 
most  of  these  is  but  an  apparent  simplicity,  complete  in 
the  eyes  of  the  shallow  thinker,  but  which  entirely  disap- 
pears when  subjected  to  the  gaze  of  a  superior  discernment. 
True,  the  difficulties  of  Christianity  may  be  more  strikingly 
apparent  than  those  of  philosophic  religions,  but  it  is  only 
because  God  in  his  goodness,  instead  of  confining  it  to  the 
acute  and  the  highly  talented,  has  brought  it  down  to  the 
level  of  the  whole  race  of  man ;  and  thus  common  capaci- 
ties arQ  brought  in  contact  with  truths  of  so  lofty  and  ab- 
struse a  character  that  the  greatest  minds  can  but  see  their 
importance  and  consistency  without  being  able  to  compre- 
hend them.  It  is  well,  however,  that  the  heart  of  the  sim- 
plest can  be  made  to  feel  their  fitness  ;  and  that  the  excel- 
lence of  doctrines  too  mighty  to  be  grasped  by  the  most 


THE    TRINITY.  409 

capacious  minds  can  be  so  appreciated  by  babes  as  to  be 
made  effectual  to  their  salvation. 

"  After  all  our  reasonings,  my  dear  William,  it  is  through 
the  heart  alone  that  we  can  lay  hold  of  the  Saviour ;  and 
to  prepare  the  heart  '  by  working  faith  in  it '  is  the  office 
of  that  Spirit  which  God  giveth  to  all  who  ask  it.  Have 
you  ever  considered  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  and  the 
peculiar  fitness  which  it  gives  to  the  character  of  God  as  a 
God  of  man  ?  Perhaps  the  query  is  rather  obscure ;  what 
I  mean  to  express  is  this  :  One  great  proof  of  the  wisdom 
of  the  Deity  is  derived  from  that  exquisite  adaptation  of 
parts  which  obtains  throughout  creation.  You  have  stud- 
ied this  in  the  human  frame,  and  must  have  seen,  in  extend- 
ing your  view,  that  not  more  admirably  are  the  parts  of 
that  frame  fitted  to  each  other  than  man  as  a  whole  is  fitted 
to  external  nature.  Now,  by  rising  a  little  higher,  and 
taking  with  you  the  Scripture  character  of  a  triune  God, 
you  will  perceive  that  there  is  yet  a  third  exquisite  adapta- 
tion of  the  nature  of  man  to  the  nature  of  the  Deity,  — 
what,  indeed,  we  might  expect,  when  we  consider  for  what 
purpose  and  in  whose  image  man  was  originally  created. 
The  subject  far  exceeds  the  limits  to  which  I  am  restricted, 
but  I  must  attempt  giving  you  a  brief  outline  of  my  mean- 
ing :  In  all  true  philosophy,  God  is  regarded  as  the  first 
cause  of  all  things,  and  as  uncaused  himself.  Necessarily, 
then,  he  must  have  existed  from  eternity,  while  everything 
else  must  have  begun  to  exist;  and,  ere  that  beginning,  he 
must  have  existed  an  eternity  alone.  But  is  this,  his  eter- 
nity of  solitude,  to  be  regarded  as  the  womb  of  Deity,  in 
which,  though  his  thoughts  might  be  employed  (I  am  ac- 
quainted with  only  the  language  of  earth), "his  affections 
lay  dormant?  Surely  not.  Who  can  think  of  a  God  of 
infinite  goodness  existing  for  an  eternity  without  love? 
But  love  requires  an  object,  and  God  existed  alone.  Yes  ; 


410  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

but  when  we  feel  that  the  ill-conceived  God  of  the  philoso- 
pher must,  so  circumstanced,  have  been  a  solitary  being, 
we  know  that  the  God  of  the  Christian  existed  in  the  society 
of  himself,  —  regarding  the  Son  and  the  Spirit  with  an  in- 
finite love,  and  infinitely  beloved  by  them.  Is  there  not 
something  wonderfully  pleasing  in  this  view  of  the  charac- 
ter of  God,  —  something  that  harmonizes  with  our  nature 
and  all  its  affections  of  love,  friendship,  brotherly  aifection, 
filial  attachment,  and  paternal  regard?  And  then  to  think 
that  all  the  persons  of  the  adorable  Godhead  are  interested 
in  us,  and  perform  a  part  in  our  redemption  !  The  Father 
willed  that  the  Son  should  be  sent,  the  Son  became  man  and 
died  for  us,  and  by  the  Spirit  is  the  sacrifice  made  effectual 
to  us  and  our  hearts  prepared.  It  is  surely  no  marvel  that 
angels  desire  to  look  into  a  mystery  so  fraught  with  the 
wisdom  and  goodness  of  Deity. 

"  Permit  me  again,  my  dear  William,  to  recommend  to 
you  Jesus  Christ  as  the  only  Saviour.  Open  all  your  heart 
to  him,  for  he  is  man  and  can  sympathize  in  all  its  affec- 
tions ;  trust  yourself  implicitly  in  him,  for  he  is  God, 
omnipotent  to  aid  and  unable  to  deceive.  Faith  can  real- 
ize his  presence,  and  there  is  happiness  to  be  found  in  his 
society,  when  the  full  heart  pours  itself  out  before  him,  of 
which  the  world  can  form  no  conception.  In  life  or  in 
death,  in  health  or  in  sickness,  it  is  well  to  be  able  to  lean 
one's  self  on  him,  as  John  did  at  the  last  supper,  and  to  feel 
as  it  were  the  heart  of  his  humanity  beating  under  the 
broad  buckler  of  his  power.  Whatever  it  may  be  your  fate 
to  encounter,  —  whether  protracted,  spirit-subduing  indis- 
position, or  that  solemn  and  awful  change  so  big  with 
interest  to  the  human  heart,  and  so  fitted  to  awaken  its 
hopes  and  its  fears ;  or  whether  you  are  to  be  again  re- 
stored to  the  lesser  cares  and  narrower  prospects  of  the 
present  life,  —  in  whatever  circumstances  placed,  or  by 


THE   TRINITY.  411 

whatever  objects  surrounded,  you  will  find  him  to  be  an  all- 
sufficient  Saviour,  and  the  friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a 
brother.  Would  that  I  were  more  worthy  to  recommend 
him  to  you, — more  like  himself;  but  I  know  you  will  for- 
give me  the  freedom  with  which  I  write,  and  that  you  will 
not  associate  with  his  infinite  wisdom  and  purity  any  of  the 
folly  or  the  evil  which  attaches  to,  my  dear  William,  your 
sincere  and  affectionate  friend, 

"HUGH  MILLER." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

MISCELLANEOUS   LETTERS. 


are  a  few  letters  of  a  miscellaneous  kind, 
some  dated,  some  undated,  written  to  various  cor- 
respondents  in  the  Journeyman  period,  which  it 
will  be  as  well  to  take  in  here.  Two  or  three  of 
them  are  addressed  to  Mr.  Strahan,  and  one  to  Mr.  Forsyth, 
containing  Miller's  "  theory  of  the  moral  character  of  the 
people  of  Scotland."  To  these  are  added,  first,  the  account, 
referred  to  in  preceding  letters,  drawn  up  by  Miller  of 
"Black  Russel,"  one  of  the  "  old-light"  clergy  satirized  by 
Burns  in  the  "  Holy  Fair  ;  "  secondly,  a  sample  of  those 
descriptive  paragraphs  contributed  by  Hugh  to  the  "  Inver- 
ness Courier  ;  "  and,  thirdly,  a  letter  to  Mr.  George  Ander- 
son, of  Inverness,  giving  an  account  of  the  writer's  scien- 
tific explorations,  and  interesting  as  containing  the  first 
allusion,  made  by  Hugh  Miller,  in  black  and  white,  to  the 
ptericthys.  Allan  Cunningham  printed  but  half  the  sketch 
of  Russel  in  his  edition  of  Burns,  and  Miller  thought  that 
Allan  had  left  out  more  than  half  its  brains.  The  short 
description  of  the  boat  accident  is  in  no  respect  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  others  of  the  same  kind,  but  it  character- 
istically exhibits  the  simplicity,  compactness,  and  sincerity 
of  style,  on  which,  in  preference  to  sentimental  effusion, 
rhetorical  ornament,  or  technical  fine  writing  of  any  kind, 
Miller  had  learned  to  depend  for  effect. 

412 


LETTER   FROM   MR.    JOHN    STRAHAN.  413 

FROM   MR.    JOHN    STRAHAN. 

"  FORRES,   Dec.  24,  1829. 

"DEAR  SIR:  —  It  is  with  much  pleasure  I  sit  down  to 
avail  myself  of  my  good  fortune  in  getting  on  the  list  of 
your  friends.  Until  a  few  days  back  I  was  but  partially 
acquainted  with  you  as  an  author,  and  yet,  from  the  little 
knowledge  I  had  of  your  great  literary  acquirements,  I 
certainly  envied  the  few  who  shared  most  of  your  esteem, 
and  ranked  highest  in  your  regard.  And  when  told  lately 
by  Miss  Dunbar  (who,  I  rejoice  to  say,  is  our  common 
friend)  that  it  was  probable  you  might  soon  visit  this  quar- 
ter, I  requested  her,  should  you  come  to  Forres,  to  introduce 
me  to  you.  She  kindly  agreed  to  do  so ;  and  from  that 
moment  I  began  to  anticipate  the  pleasure  I  should  derive 
from  having  the  honor  of  pointing  out  to  you  the  numerous 
scenes  and  antiquities  about  Forres,  which  are,  I  imagine, 
not  unworthy  of  the  eye  of  the  poet.  Were  you  to  trace 
the  scenes  in  our  neighborhood  now  rendered  classic  by  the 
author  of  the  '  Wolf  of  Badenoch,'  you  would  confess  that 
some  of  them  are  themselves  poems,  produced  by  the  great 
poet  Nature  in  her  holiest  and  happiest  moods.  But  it  is 
to  myself,  and  not  to  rural  scenery,  that  I  wish  to  refer 
now.  From  what  I  have  said  you  can  conceive  something 
of  the  happy  response  my  heart  gave  to  the  wish  you  ex- 
pressed, that  we  might  become  friends  :  with  my  whole  soul 
I  subscribe  to  your  proposition.  Friendship  with  me  is  not 
merely  a  name ;  I  hold  it  to  be  a  sacred,  and,  as  I  have 
often  found  it,  a  joy-giving  reality.  It  is  the  groundwork 
of  all  social  pleasures,  and  the  chief  promoter  of  individual 
happiness  ;  and  it  is  the  more  to  be  esteemed  that  it  makes 
its  home  alike  in  the  heart  of  the  laborer  and  of  the  lord,  — 
binding  all  congenial  spirits  together  by  its  sweet  and  mys- 
terious influences.  I  am  deeply  interested  in  your  welfare, 


414  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

and  I  feel  sure  that  your  industry  will  insure  you  success, 
and  gain  you  a  name  among  the  authors  of  your  country. 
It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  see  and  know  this.  I  am 
not  a  little  proud  of  the  opinion  which  you  have  expressed 
regarding  my  pieces  ;  an  encomium  pronounced  by  one  of 
your  taste  and  judgment  weighs  against  the  censure  of  a 
thousand,  who,  in  their  ignorance,  prattle  of  such  matters." 

TO    MR.     STRAHAN. 

"  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  take  up  the  pen  to  write  to 
a  poet.  I  had  a  friend,  not  many  years  ago,  who  also  had 
learned  the  art  unteachable,  and  whose  heart  was  as 
warm  as  his  imagination  was  active.  He  is  now  no  more. 
Since  his  death  the  place  he  occupied  in  my  affections  has 
remained  a  blank ;  and  part  of  the  pleasure  I  derive  from 
your  kind  letter  arises  from  the  hope  of  having  that  blank 
filled.  The  life  of  the  friend  I  allude  to  was  one  of  melan- 
choly and  disappointment.  He  possessed  no  ordinary 
powers ;  but  from  an  unfortunate  diffidence,  which  was,  I 
believe,  constitutional  to  him,  he  almost  always  despaired 
of  attaining  the  object  he  pursued,  when  every  other  person 
who  could  judge  of  the  matter  deemed  him  just  on  the  point 
of  gaining  it.  The  consequence  was  that  he  failed  in 
almost  everything  he  attempted,  and  that,  though  endowed 
with  a  fine  genius  for  both  painting  and  poetry,  he  gained 
not  a  modicum  of  celebrity  in  either.  He  died  nearly  two 
years  ago ;  and  were  the  existence  and  the  hopes  of  man 
confined  to  the  present  world,  it  might  be  said  of  him,  that, 
as  he  lived  in  it  almost  without  enjoyment,  so  he  quitted  it 
without  accomplishing  anything.  But  the  contrary  was  the 
fact,  for  in  reality  he  achieved  much.  His  name  was  Wil- 
liam Ross,  a  name  which  you  may  repeat  a  thousand  times 
and  in  a  thousand  places  without  awakening  a  single  recol- 
lection of  him  who  bore  it.  No  sense  of  sacredness,  no 


LETTER   TO   MR.    STRAHAN.  415 

feeling  of  devotion,  connected  with  either  his  genius  or  his 
worth,  shall  ever  press  on  the  minds  of  those  who  behold 
the  nameless  sod  which  covers  his  remains ;  and  yet, 
though  thus  obscure,  he  has  earned  a  loftier  fame  than  that 
which  the  men  of  this  earth  can  bestow.  Through  the 
grace  of  God,  he  had  subdued  his  own  spirit ;  he  had 
striven  against  the  ills  of  human  life  and  human  nature, 
and  so  far  as  these  concerned  himself  he  had  overcome 
them  ;  and  as  he  had  the  merit  of  living  without  reproach, 
so  he  had  the  happiness  of  dying  without  fear.  These,  my 
dear  sir,  were  achievements  greater  than  any  merely  liter- 
ary ones,  and,  you  know,  the  fame  awarded  to  such,  God 
has  described  as  bestowed  by  his  own  lips  and  those  of  the 
pure  spirits  of  heaven.  Forgive  me  this  slight  sketch  of 
the  character  of  your  predecessor. 

"  Accept  my  thanks  for  the  copy  you  have  sent  me  of 
your  interesting  little  book.  What  have  the  critics  said  of 
it  ?  Upon  mine  they  have  delivered  every  possible  variety 
of  opinion.  I  am  a  man  of  genius,  —  I  am  a  blockhead,  — 
my  name  is  to  be  at  once  illustrious  and  obscure.  I  do  not 
intend  writing  verses  for  a  long,  long  time.  I  purpose  de- 
voting myself  entirely  to  prose ;  partly,  perhaps,  because 
the  study  is  easier  in  itself,  partly  because  I  am  of  opinion 
that  nature  has  fitted  me  to  attain  a  considerable  command 
of  the  pen  in  this  department  of  composition.  If  ever  I 
gain  celebrity,  it  will  be  as  a  writer  of  prose." 

TO   THE    SAME. 

"  My  page  of  history,  since  I  parted  from  you  at  Rose- 
markie,  occupies  little  space,  and  is  by  no  means  very  bril- 
liant. I  have  hewn  tomb-stones,  and  sold  such  fame  as  the 
chisel  affords,  —  and  warranted  to  last  a  whole  century, — 
at  so  much  per  letter.  I  have  built  houses  during  the  day, 
and  castles  during  the  night.  I  have  written  pages,  and 


416-  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

have  promised  to  write  books,  and  I  now  find  myself  on 
the  verge  of  my  twenty-eighth  year  nearly  as  foolish,  and 
quite  as  much  without  a  rational  aim  in  life,  as  when  en- 
tering on  my  fourteenth. 

"  I  have  not  yet  written  a  single  line  in  verse  since  the 
publication  of  my  book,  and  I  now  flatter  myself  that  my 
cure  is  radically  complete.  But,  alas  !  there  will  be  writers 
of  bad  verse  in  abundance,  though  I  should  never  write 
any.  In  June  last  I  was  visited  by  a  Highland  versifier, 
who,  after  having  blotted  much  good  paper  with  miserable 
rhyme,  determined  on  publication  about  two  years  ago, 
and  he  has  been  wandering  over  the  country  ever  since  in 
quest  of  subscribers  and  a  patron.  The  terms  are  that  half 
the  money  be  paid  him  in  advance,  but  as  what  he  receives 
barely  affords  him  sustenance,  his  day  of  publication  is  as 
far  away  as  at  the  beginning.  He  is  so  far  honest,  how- 
ever, as  to  prefer  the  fame  of  a  poet  to  all  the  money  in  the 
world  ;  and,  from  a  conviction  of  this,  I  strive  to  do  him  a 
service,  not  by  telling  him  that  his  verses  were  bad,  for 
that  would  have  been  taking  a  wolf  by  the  ears,  but  by  as- 
suring him  that  the  person  who  could  not  write  as  well  as 
Scott  and  Byron  and  Wordsworth  had  no  chance  of  becom- 
ing popular,  and  so  had  better  not  write  at  all.  '  Ah, 
craving  your  pardon/  said  the  poet,  c  one  may  be  very 
eminent  without  being  quite  at  the  top.  You  must  surely 
allow  that  there  is  nature  and  originality  in  my  pieces ; 
possessed  of  nature  and  originality,  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  fail.  I  will  print  four  thousand  copies  of  my 
work,  and  shall  sell  every  one  of  them.'  We  have  another 
poet  in  this  part  of  the  country,  who  has  issued  proposals 
for  printing  a  metrical  history  of  Joseph,  consisting  of 
twenty  thousand  lines." 


LETTER   TO    MR.    JOHN   STRAHAN.  417 

TO    THE    SAME. 

"  SCHOOL-HOUSE  OF  NIGG,  Sept.  5th,  1833. 
"  I  send  you,  according  to  promise,  a  copy  of  my  young 
friend's  verses.  They  are,  as  I  have  already  stated  to  you, 
quite  her  first  attempt  in  metrical  composition,  with  the  ex- 
ception, perhaps,  of  half-a-dozen  stanzas,  and,  regarded  as 
such,  indicate,  or  I  am  somewhat  mistaken,  considerable 
powers  of  thought  and  expression,  a  delicate  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  and  much  of  what  metaphysicians  term  the  con- 
ceptive  faculty.  It  is  wonderful  with  what  facility  some 
happily  constituted  minds  acquire  an  ability  of  wielding  all 
their  powers,  contrasted  with  the  much  labor  it  costs  others, 
though  of  no  inferior  order,  to  attain  a  very  limited  com- 
mand of  these.  There  are  winged  spirits  which  can  reach 
at  a  single  flight  the  higher  pinnacles  of  art.  I  have  read 
of  a  common  mechanic,  who,  after  watching  for  a  few  hours 
a  copperplate  engraver  when  at  work,  bought  a  plate  of 
copper  from  him,  and,  going  home,  produced  a  masterpiece. 
There  is  a  similar  story  told  of  West,  the  painter.  How 
different  the  progress  of  other  minds  !  They  can  but  climb 
upwards ;  and,  resting  in  succession  on  every  one  of  the 
thousand  ledges  which  lie  between  the  summit  and  the 
plain  below,  gain  only  hal£  a  footstep  at  each  advance. 
How  many  miserable  lines  did  I  not  write  before  I  became 
sufficiently  skilful  to  produce  merely  tolerable  ones ! 
Favor  me  at  your  earliest  opportunity  with  your  critical 
opinion,  and  write  it  in  such  a  way,  though  freely  and  with 
sincerity,  that  I  may  show  your  letter  to  the  fair  authoress, 
with  whom  I  am  sufficiently  intimate  to  know  that  she  has 
too  much  good  sense  to  be  offended  with  truths,  however 
severe,  which  tend  to  her  improvement.  I  dare  say  I 
ought  not  to  tell  you,  for  fear  of  biasing  your  judgment, 
that  you  are  much  a  favorite  with  her,  and  that  when  you 
27 


418  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

waited  on  her  at  Forres  it  was  less  on  my  account,  the  os- 
tensible reason,  than  in  consequence  of  an  interest  awak- 
ened in  her  on  your  own.  I  trust  that,  in  your  present 
season  of  leisure,  you  will  occasionally  think  of  me,  and 
that  your  interesting  autobiographical  memoir  is  still  in- 
complete. Shall  I  return  you  the  first  part,  or  have  you 
recovered  your  own  copy  of  it  ?  " 

The  lines  enclosed  to  Mr.  Strahan  were  addressed  by 
Miss  Fraser  to  her  friend  Miss  Smith,  on  the  occasion  of 
the  departure  of  the  latter  from  this  country  for  America :  — 

"  Bella,  we  part;  between  us  two 
A  desert  ocean  soon  shall  lie ; 
From  childhood's  home  and  love  you  go, 
The  stranger's  love  and  home  to  try. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  hard  to  sunder  us, 

So  tenderly,  so  closely  twined, 
From  all  that's  dear  to  turn  the  eyes, 
And  leave  the  spirit's  joys  behind. 

"  Yet  droop  not,  love,  nor  shed  the  tear 

Of  anguish  or  of  dark  despair ; 
Bleak  may  the  distant  scene  appear, 

Yet  many  a  sweet  flower  blossoms  there ; 

"  And  images,  now  painfy.1,  when 

Time's  softening  hand  has  swept  their  lines, 
Shall  be  the  fairest,  loveliest  then, 
That  in  your  memory's  mirror  shines. 

"  Thus  when  Columbia's  setting  sun 

Across  the  shadowed  forest  gleams  ; 
And  rainbows,  fading  one  by  one, 
Uncolored  leave  the  foamy  streams ; 

"  In  fancy  still  you'll  wander  o'er 

The  pine-clad  hill  that  walls  the  deep ; 
And  hear  the  dashing  billows  roar, 
And  see  them  scale  the  rocky  steep, 


LETTER   TO   MR.    ISAAC    FORSYTE. 


419 


"  While  that  sun,  sinking  in  the  west, 

Rests  on  Ben  Wyvis'  distant  brow, 

And  woos  the  ocean's  rugged  breast 

To  golden  smiles  and  gentle  flow. 

"  'Twere  but  to  wrong  a  faithful  heart 

If  I  should  say,  remember  me ; 
Affection  will,  I  know,  impart 
Fidelity  to  memory. 

"  But  earthly  friendship  at  its  best 

Is  but  a  fragile,  feeble  thing; 
Powerless  to  soothe  the  sorrowing  breast, 
From  ill  our  bitter  drop  to  wring. 

"  Oh,  then,  my  Bella!  may  you  find 

The  heavenly  Comforter  your  Friend ; 
'Tis  his  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
For  heaviness  he  praise  can  send." 


TO    MR.    ISAAC    FORSTTH. 

"  States,  like  individuals,  decay  as  they  advance  in 
years,  and  they  at  length  expire.  Their  progress  from 
youth  to  age,  includes  two  extremes  and  a  medium.  But 
in  one  respect  bodies  politic  differ  from  bodies  natural ;  for 
in  the  several  members  of  the  former  there  may  be  different 
degrees  of  age.  In  this  country  there  are  districts  peo- 
pled by  men  who  have  not  yet  reached  the  medium  line, 
and  there  are  others  whose  inhabitants  have  gone  beyond 
it.  Of  the  former  kind  are  the  Highland  district3 ;  of  the 
latter  are  the  greater  number  of  those  of  the  Lowlands, 
especially  such  of  these  as  contain  large  towns.  But  it  is 
only  among  the  lower  classes  that  the  differences  of  the 
several  stages  are  discernible ;  for  the  people  in  the  upper 
walks  of  society  bear  almost  the  same  character  all  over  the 
kingdom.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  only  by  an  observer  who  is 
placed  on  the  same  level  with  the  former,  and  who,  from 


420  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

this  circumstance,  becomes  intimately  acquainted  with 
their  manners,  habits,  and  modes  of  thought,  that  at  least 
the  minuter  differences  can  be  discerned.  By  such  a  per- 
son, however,  if  the  theory  be  a  just  one,  a  tour  through 
Scotland  may  be  regarded,  not  merely  as  a  journey 
through  various  places,  but  also  as  an  extended  existence 
through  different  ages. 

"  Each  situation  in  life,  regarded  as  a  point  of  observa- 
tion, has  advantages  peculiar  to  itself,  by  commanding  a 
view  of  certain  objects  which  cannot  be  so  happily  studied 
from  any  other  point ;  but  the  situations  of  the  middle  and 
higher  classes  of  society  have  been  so  repeatedly  occupied 
by  skilful  observers,  that  their  fields  of  view  present  not  a 
single  object  which  has  not  already  been  examined  and 
described.  This  is  not  yet  the  case  with  the  lower  points 
of  observation.  The  gentleman  philosopher  who  writes 
upon  character  will,  if  he  desires  to  attain  originality,  have, 
perhaps,  to  become  a  mere  theorist,  or  to  set  himself  to  un- 
fold hidden  principles  and  motives ;  but  how  different 
would  the  case  be  with  a  philosophical  gypsy,  could  we 
imagine  such  a  person !  His  range  of  observation,  how- 
ever contracted,  would  be  perfectly  new ;  and  to  attain 
originality  he  would  have  only  to  describe.  I  reckon  that 
one  of  the  advantages  of  my  place  in  society  (it  would 
require  to  have  some,  for  the  disadvantages  incident  to  it 
are  somewhat  numerous);  that  it  commands  a  wide  and 
diversified  prospect  of  the  latter  description. 

"  This  part  of  the  country  contains  a  rich  and  as  yet 
unexplored  mine  of  tradition  ;  but  some  of  the  stories  are 
of  too  wild  and  fantastic  a  character  for  furnishing  a  suit- 
able basis  for  a  prose  tale ;  and  the  great  bulk  of  them, 
though  they  might  prove  interesting  when  wrought  up 
together,  are  too  simple  and  too  naked  of  both  detail  and 
description  to  stand  alone.  They  resemble  some  of  the 


IMAGINATIVE    IMPRESSIONS.  421 

minuter  flowers,  that  scarcely  appear  beautiful  until  bound 
up  in  a  nosegay. 

"  Conversation  to  me  proves  generally  an  imperfect 
medium  for  the  conveyance  of  thought ;  and  I  expressed 
myself  rather  loosely  in  what  I  said  when  in  your  company 
in  Cromarty  regarding  the  assistance  which,  in  detailing 
these  traditions,  my  memory  derives  from  my  imagination. 
Imagination  frequently  assists  me  in  giving  a  something 
like  life  to  narratives  which  were  before  dead.  It  draws 
landscapes,  too,  around  the  figures  to  which  tradition  has 
introduced  me,  and  sometimes  furnishes  these  figures  with 
the  language  of  dialogue.  This,  however,  was  not  at  all 
what  I  at  that  time  had  meant  to  state ;  but  I  may,  per- 
haps, be  more  happy  in  conveying  my  meaning  by  the 
pen.  The  faculty  of  my  mind  which  was  first  developed 
was  imagination,  and  the  development  was  neither  partial 
nor  gradual.  Before  I  had  attained  my  fifth  year  I  had 
become  the  inhabitant  of  two  distinct  worlds,  the  true  and 
the  ideal ;  and  the  images  of  the  latter  appeared  to  me 
scarcely  less  tangible  or  less  clearly  defined  than  those  of 
the  former.  My  mind  presented  me  with  a  vivid  picture 
of  every  incident  of  which  I  was  told.  This  faculty  was 
productive,  in  some  instances,  of  consequences  of  a  rather 
ludicrous  cast.  As  early  as  the  period  referred  to  I  was 
one  day  sitting  beside  my  mother,  listening  with  great 
attention  to  a  recital  with  which  she  was  entertaining  a 
neighbor  of  some  of  the  circumstances  connected  with  my 
birth,  —  such  as  a  singular  dream  my  father  had  concern- 
ing me,  an  unusual  conformation  of  head  which  the  mid- 
wife observed  in  me,  and  which  she  deemed  indicative  of 
idiotism,  and  the  details  of  the  christening.  According  to 
custom,  my  imagination  presented  me  at  the  time  with 
pictures  of  all  I  heard  described.  Well,  about  eighteen 
years  after,  by  one  of  those  sudden  freaks  of  memory 


422  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

which  are  not  very  easily  explained,  even  on  the  associa- 
tive principle,  these  pictures  were  again  brought  before 
me ;  and,  as  I  did  not  at  first  remember  anything  of  the 
narrative  which  had  produced  them,  sadly  was  I  puzzled  to 
account  for  the  recollection.  And,  after  thinking  on  the 
subject  for  a  few  days,  I  had  a  narrow  escape  from  becom- 
ing one  of  the  most  singular  of  metaphysicians,  by  being 
enabled  to  unravel  the  whole  circumstances  of  the  matter 
as  related.  I  have  also  two  several  recollections  of  spec- 
tres, which  would  render  me  a  firm  believer  in  apparitions, 
could  I  not  account  for  them  in  this  way,  as  the  creatures 
of  an  imagination  which  had  attained  an  unusual  and  even 
morbid  strength  at  a  time  when  the  other  mental  faculties 
were  scarcely  at  all  unfolded." 

TO   MR.    CARRUTHERS. 

"  CROMARTY,  Oct.  22,  1833. 

"  The  last  of  Mr.  Bussel's  scholars,  unfortunately 
for  your  request,  died  last  year.  But  I  dare  say  I  shall  be 
able,  notwithstanding,  to  furnish  you  with  as  much  infor- 
mation regarding  him  as  your  friend,  Mr.  Cunningham, 
may  choose  to  avail  himself  of.  Do  not,  however,  I  pray 
you,  insert  any  of  it  in  your  paper. 

"It  is  now  somewhat  more  than  seventy  years  since 
John  Russel,  a  native,  as  I  have  heard,  of  Moray,  and  at 
that  time  a  probationer  of  divinity,  was  appointed  to  the 
parish  school  of  Cromarty.  He  was  a  large,  robust,  dark- 
complexioned  man,  imperturbably  grave,  and  with  a  sullen 
expression  seated  in  the  deep  folds  of  his  forehead,  that 
boded  the  urchins  of  the  place  little  good.  And  in  a  few 
months  he  had  acquired  for  himself  the  character  of  being 
by  far  the  most  rigid  disciplinarian  in  the  county.  He 
was,  I  believe,  a  good,  conscientious  man,  but  unfortunate 


BLACK    RUSSEL.  423 

in  a  harsh  and  violent  temper,  and  in  sometimes  mistaking 
the  dictates  of  that  temper  for  those  of  duty.  Never,  cer- 
tainly, was  schoolmaster  more  feared  and  hated  by  his 
pupils  ;  and  with  fear  and  hatred  did  many  of  them  con- 
tinue to  regard  him  long  after  they  had  become  men  and 
women.  I  have  heard  of  a  lady  who,  unexpectedly  seeing 
him,  many  years  after  she  had  quitted  his  school,  in  the 
pulpit  of  one  of  the  south  county  churches,  was  so  over- 
come by  sudden  terror,  that  she  fainted  away ;  and  of 
another  of  his  scholars,  named  M'Glasher,  who,  on  return- 
ing home  to  Cromarty  from  some  of  the  colonies,  a  robust 
fellow  of  six  feet,  solaced  himself  by  the  way  with  thoughts 
of  the  hearty  drubbing  with  which  he  was  to  clear  off  all 
his  old  scores  with  the  dominie.  But  ere  his  return  the 
dominie  had  quitted  the  parish.  There  Was  a  poor  boy 
named  Skinner  among  Russel's  scholars  who,  as  was  cus- 
tomary in  Scottish  schools  of  the  period,  blew  the  horn  for 
gathering  the  pupils,  and  kept  both  the  catalogue  and  the 
key ;  and  who  in  return  was  educated  by  the  master  and 
received  some  little  gratuity  from  the  boys  besides.  Un- 
luckily, on  one  occasion  the  key  dropped  out  of  his  pocket ; 
and  when  school-time  came,  the  irascible  dominie  had  to 
burst  open  the  door  with  his  foot.  He  raged  at  the  boy 
with  a  fury  so  insane,  and  beat  him  with  such  relentless 
severity,  that  the  other  boys,  plucking  up  heart  in  the 
extremity  of  the  case,  rose  on  him  in  a  mass,  and  tore  the 
poor  fellow  out  of  his  hands.  And  such,  it  is  said,  was  the 
impression  made  on  the  mind  of  the  latter,  that,  though  he 
quitted  the  school  shortly  after  and  plied  the  profession  of 
a  fisherman,  until  he  died,  an  old  man,  he  was  never  seen, 
in  all  his  life  from  that  day,  disengaged  for  a  single  moment 
without  melancholily  thrusting  his  hand  into  the  key 
pocket.  One  other  anecdote  illustrative  of  Mr.  Kussel's 
temper.  He  was  passing  along  the  streets  of  Cromarty  on 


424  THE   JOURNEYMAN. 

a  coarse,  wintry  day  some  seventy  years  ago,  with  his  head 
half  buried  in  his  breast,  for  the  day  was  one  of  wind  and 
rain  from  the  sea,  when  he  came  violently  in  contact  with  a 
thatcher's  ladder  which  had  been  left  sloping  from  the  roof 
of  one  of  the  houses,  half-way  across  the  street.  A  much 
less  matter  would  have  been  sufficient  to  awaken  the  wrath 
of  Eussel.  He  sprung  at  the  ladder  with  the  ferocity  of  a 
tiger,  and,  dashing  it  down  on  the  pavement,  broke  with  his 
powerful  fist  every  one  of  the  steps  before  he  quitted  it. 
He  was  schoolmaster  in  Cromarty  for  about  twelve  years, 
and  for  at  least  the  last  six  of  these  was  not  a  little  popular 
as  a  preacher.  His  manner  was  strong  and  energetic  ;  and 
the  natural  severity  of  his  temper  seems  to  have  been  more 
than  genius  to  him  when  expatiating,  which  he  did  often,  on 
the  miseries  of  the  wicked  in  a  future  state.  I  have  seen 
one  of  the  sermons  in  print ;  it  is  a  controversial  one, 
written  in  a  bold,  rough  style,  and  by  no  means  very  infe- 
rior as  a  piece  of  argument ;  but  he  was  evidently  a  person 
rather  to  be  listened  to  than  read.  He  was  quite  as  rigid 
in  church  matters,  it  is  said,  as  in  those  at  the  school,  but 
with  no  very  marked  success.  He  contrived  to  flog  some 
of  his  boys  into  very  tolerable  scholars  ;  but  though  he  set 
himself,  in  Cromarty,  so  much  against  the  practice  of  Sab- 
bath walking  that  he  used  to  take  his  stand  every  Sunday 
evening  in  one  of  the  avenues  which  leads  from  the  town, 
and  turn  back  the  walkers  by  the  shoulders,  after  he  had  first 
shaken  them  by  the  breast,  the  practice,  out  of  the  sheer 
wrongheadedness  of  the  people,  became  more  popular  than 
before.  He  was  called  from  the  school  of  Cromarty  to  a 
chapel  of  ease  in  Kilmarnock,  and  there  came  in  contact 
with  Burns.  I  do  not  know  that  he  is  the  hero  of  the 
'  Calf/  but  he  cuts  a  rare  figure  in  the  '  Holy  Fair '  (see 
stanzas  21  and  22),  in  the  'Ordination'  (see  stanzas  2 
and  13),  in  the  '  Kirk's  Alarm'  (see  stanza  5),  and  in  the 


BLACK    RUSSEL.  425 

'  Twa  Herds/  one  of  whom  (see  stanza  3)  was  the  worthy 
Russel.  The  poet  must  have  regarded  the  rugged  preacher 
of  the  north  as  no  common  antagonist ;  for  against  none  of 
all  his  other  clerical  opponents  has  he  opened  so  powerful  a 
battery. 

"  I  have  an  uncle  in  Cromarty,  now  an  elderly  man,  who, 
when  residing  in  Glasgow  in  the  year  1792,  walked  about 
ten  miles  into  the  country  to  attend  a  sacrament  at  which 
the  learned  Mr.  Russel  was  to  officiate,  and  which  proved 
to  be  quite  such  a  one  as  Burns  has  described  in  his 
'  Holy  Fair.*  There  were  excellent  sermons  to  be  heard 
from  the  tent,  and  excellent  drink  to  be  had  in  an  ale- 
house scarcely  a  hundred  yards  away ;  and  between  the 
tent  and  the  alehouse  were  the  people  divided,  according  to 
their  tastes  and  characters.  A  young  man  preached  in  the 
early  part  of  the  day ;  his  discourse  was  a  long,  one,  and 
ere  it  had  come  to  a  close  the  mirth  of  the  neighboring 
topers,  which  became  louder  the  more  deeply  they  drank, 
had  begun  to  annoy  the  congregation.  Mr.  Russel  was 
standing  beside  the  tent.  At  every  fresh  burst  of  sound 
he  would  raise  himself  on  tiptoe,  look  first  with  a  portentous 
expression  of  countenance  towards  the  alehouse,  and  then 
at  the  clergyman,  who,  at  length  concluding  his  part  of  the 
service,  yielded  him  his  place.  He  laid  aside  the  book, 
and,  without  psalm  or  prayer,  or  any  of  the  usual  prelimi- 
naries, launched  at  once  into  a  powerful  extempore  address 
directed  over  the  heads  of  the  people  at  the  alehouse.  My 
uncle  has  often  assured  me  he  never  in  his  life  heard  any- 
thing half  so  energetic.  His  ears  absolutely  tingled,  as  the 
preacher  thundered  out,  in  a  voice  almost  superhuman,  his 
solemn  and  terrible  denunciations.  Every  sound  of  revelry 
ceased  in  a  moment ;  and  the  bacchanals,  half-drunk,  as 
most  of  them  were,  were  so  thoroughly  cowed  as  to  be  fain 
to  steal  out  through  a  back  window.  Mr.  Russel,  before 


426  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

his  death,  which  took  place  about  twenty  years  ago,  was 
one  of  the  ministers  of  Stirling.  A  Cromarty  man,  a  sol- 
dier in  a  Highland  regiment,  when  stationed  in  the  castle 
of  that  place,  had  got  involved  one  day  in  some  street 
quarrel,  and  was  swearing  furiously,  when  a  tall,  gaunt  old 
man  in  black  came  and  pulled  him  out  of  the  crowd. 
'  Wretched  creature  that  ye  are,'  said  the  old  man  ;  c  come 
along  with  me/  He  drew  him  into  a  quiet  corner,  and 
began  to  expostulate  with  him  on  his  profanity  in  a  style  to 
which  the  soldier,  an  intelligent,  though  by  no  means  a 
steady  man,  could  not  but  listen.  Mr.  Russel,  for  it  was 
no  other  than  he,  seemed  much  pleased  with  the  attention 
he  paid  him ;  and,  on  learning  where  he  had  come  from, 
and  the  name  of  his  parents,  exclaimed,  with  much  feeling : 
6  Waes  me  that  your  father's  son  should  be  a  blackguard 
soldier  on  the  street  of  Stirling !  But  come  awaV  He" 
brought  him  home  with  him,  and  added  to  the  much  good 
advice  he  had  given  him  an  excellent  dinner.  The  temper 
of  the  preacher  seems  to  have  softened  a  good  deal  as  he 
became  old,  and  he  grew  much  a  favorite  with  the  more 
serious  part  of  his  congregation.  He  was,  I  doubt  not, 
with  all  his  defects  of  temper,  an  honest,  pious  man ;  and 
had  he  lived  in  the  days  of  Ren  wick  and  Cargill,  or,  a  cen- 
tury earlier,  in  the  days  of  Knox  and  Wishart,  he  might 
have  been  a  useful  one.  But  he  was  unlucky  in  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  in  his  temper,  and  in  coming  in  contact  with 
as  hard-headed  people  as  himself." 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE    u  INVERNESS    COURIER." 

"  CROMARTY,  May  29,  1830. 

"  On  Monday,  the  24th  instant,  a  Cromarty  boat,  which 
had  gone  with  the  passengers  from  Invergordon  to  Wick, 
left  the  latter  port  on  her  return,  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  The  crew  consisted  of  three  seamen,  two  of 
whom  were  brothers  ;  and  there  were  also  on  board  a  native 


A    BOAT   ACCIDENT.  427 

of  Tain,  John  Ross,  who  had  taken  his  passage  with  them 
to  Cromarty,  together  with  his  wife  and  six  children  ;  in  all, 
eleven  persons.  There  was  a  light  breeze  from  the  north, 
accompanied  by  a  moderate  swell,  and,  with  both  sails 
stretched  to  the  mast-head,  the  boat  swept  for  about  five 
hours  at  an  easy  rate  along  the  shore.  At  ten  o'clock  she 
was  nearly  opposite  the  Castle  of  Dunbeath.  About  this 
time  Alexander  Skinner,  now  the  sole  survivor  of  the  eleven, 
became  drowsy,  and,  quitting  the  stern  of  the  boat,  where 
the  helmsman  (Andrew  Johnston)  and  the  passengers  were, 
he  went  ahead  of  the  mainsail,  and  lay  down  to  sleep.  His 
last  recollection  of  this  period  is,  that  the  helmsman  and 
Ross  were  engaged  in  conversation.  He  was  awakened 
about  an  hour  after  by  a  tremendous  shock,  and  a  huge 
wave  which  broke  over  him.  On  starting  up,  he  ascer- 
tained that  the  boat  had  run  upon  a  ledge  of  rock,  detached 
from  the  shore,  which  was  to  be  seen  through  the  dim  twi- 
light about  thirty  yards  distant.  The  scene  that  follows 
baffles  description.  The  boat  hung  fast  by  the  midships  ;  a 
heavy  sea  was  tumbling  round  her,  and  breaking  over  her ; 
the  children  were  screaming,  and  the  boatmen  shouting  for 
assistance.  A  pinnacle  of  the  ledge  was  only  partially 
covered  by  the  surf,  and,  as  it  promised,  for  at  least  a  few 
minutes,  a  less  precarious  lodgment  than  that  which  the 
boat  afforded,  —  for  she  now  began  to  break  up,  —  the  crew 
and  the  passengers  removed  to  it.  Alas !  the  tide  was 
rising ;  and,  melancholy  to  relate,  in  about  half  an  hour 
some  of  the  children  were  washed  away  by  the  surf.  One 
of  the  boatmen,  David  Johnston,  could  swim  a  little  ;  and, 
stripping  off  his  clothes,  he  leaped  into  the  water,  and 
reached  the  shore.  The  survivor  (Skinner),  though  he  could 
not  swim,  sprang  after  him,  and  his  struggling,  assisted  by 
the  heave  of  the  sea,  brought  him  into  shallow  water,  where 
he  found  footing.  The  boatman  who  had  first  reached  the 
land,  recognizing,  amid  the  heart-rending  cries  of  the  suf- 


428  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

-ferers  on  the  rock,  the  voice  of  his  brother,  returned  to  his 
assistance ;  but,  in  the  attempt  to  bring  him  ashore,  the 
latter  was  drowned ;  and  he  himself  was  so  exhausted  with 
fatigue  and  cold,  that  he  expired  in  the  fields,  into  which 
he  had  gone,  after  his  second  landing,  in  quest  of  shelter 
and  assistance.  Skinner  pressed  onwards,  and  came  up  to 
an  inhabited  house ;  but  the  inmates,  deeming  him  some 
deranged  person,  —  an  opinion  which,  it  is  probable,  his 
state  of  mind  at  the  time  almost  justified,  —  denied  him 
admittance.  In  consequence  of  this  mistake,  a  consid- 
erable space  elapsed  before  men  who  could  render  assist- 
ance were  apprized  of  the  disaster;  and,  when  they  at 
length  arrived,  they  found  exertion  unavailing,  for  there 
remained  no  object  to  call  it  forth.  The  rock  was  buried 
beneath  the  waves,  and  three,  whom  Skinner  had  left  cling- 
ing to  it  with  all  the  energy  of  despair,  had  perished. 
Four  of  the  bodies  have  since  been  found,  besides  that  of 
the  boatman  who  died  in  the  fields.  It  is  supposed  that  the 
accident  was  occasioned  by  the  pilot  having  fallen  asleep  at 
the  helm,  as  the  spot  where  it  took  place  is  considerably  out 
of  the  course  which  the  boat  ought  to  have  pursued.  It  is 
not  a  little  remarkable  that  since  the  middle  of  autumn  last 
a  greater  number  of  the  inhabitants  of  Cromarty  have  per- 
ished by  sea  than  for  the  thirty  years  preceding." 

TO   MR.    GEORGE   ANDERSON. 

"CROMARTY,  Sept.  15,  1834. 

• 

"  Whatever  may  be  the  value  of  my  specimens,  —  and  I 
am  afraid  they  are  very  rarely  of  any,  —  my  discoveries 
almost  always  turn  out  discoveries  at  second  hand.  I  see  it 
is  a  great  matter  to  be  acquainted  with  what  has  been  done 
by  others.  I  have  spent  week  after  week  in  arriving  at  a 
knowledge  of  facts  which  I  could  have  acquired  in  a  few 
minutes  from  the  pages  of  a  geological  catechism,  had  I 
but  known  that  I  might  have  looked  for  it  there.  I  have 


GEOLOGICAL   STUDIES.  429 

formed  theories,  too,  at  some  little  expense  of  thought,  only 
to  find  that  some  more  fortunate  speculatist  had  built  them 
up  much  more  neatly,  and  long  before.  Sir  Thomas  D. 
Lauder,  for  instance,  has  anticipated  my  theory  of  the 
formation  of  the  great  Caledonian  valley,  and  Mr.  Murch- 
ison  my  hypothesis  regarding  the  erection  of  the  Sutors. 
This  is  all  by  way  of  preface  to  what  I  have  to  say  of  a 
little  discovery  I  have  lately  made,  which  may,  in  the  same 
way,  be  no  discovery  at  all. 

The  lias  beds,  which  appear  at  Eathie  and  Shandwick, 
form  evidently  parts  of  a  continuous  ridge,  which  stretches 
between  these  places  in  a  line  nearly  parallel  to  that  of  the 
coast ;  and  they  must  have  formed  the  superior  strata  of  the 
great  secondary  basin  of  this  part  of  the  country  at  the 
period  the  granitic  rock  of  the  Sutors  was  forced  through. 
But  where,  I  have  frequently  asked  myself,  am  I  to  look  for 
the  remains  of  similar  strata  on  the  northern  and  western 
sides  of  these  rocks  ?  or  am  I  to  infer  that  they  rose  at  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  tos,  thus  merely  throwing  it  off  tow- 
ards the  south  and  east,  from  the  sandstone  on  which  it  had 
rested  ?  I  conceived  of  the  lias  strata  as  of  ice  on  a  pond  ; 
a  wedge  forced  through  it  in  the  centre  would  break  up  its 
continuity,  and  derange  its  position  on  two  sides,  —  the 
two  sides  of  the  wedge,  —  whereas  a  wedge  forced  through 
it  at  its  edge  would  merely  separate  it  from  the  bank,  and 
derange  its  horizontal  position  on  only  one  side.  The  great 
thickness  of  the  lias  at  Eathie  seems,  however,  to  militate 
against  this  latter  supposition,  —  the  wedge  must  have  been 
forced  through  a  central  part  of  the  pond  ;  and  for  several 
years  past  I  have  been  examining,  in  my  rambles,  the  vari- 
ous ravines  on  the  western  and  northern  sides  of  the  Sutors, 
and  the  rocks  laid  bare  by  the  sea  within  the  bay,  in  the 
hope  of  meeting  with  the  lias.  I  have  at  length  found,  not 
it,  but  something  equally  curious.  Rather  more  than  half 
a  mile  east  of  the  town  the  granitic  rock  is  bounded,  as  you 


430  THE    JOURNEYMAN. 

are  aware,  by  a  thick  bed  of  breccia  ;  then  there  occurs  a 
small  vein  of  limestone,  and  then  alternate  strata  of  coarse 
red  and  yellowish  sandstone,  with  here  and  there  a  vein  of 
stratified  clay,  containing  nodules  of  a  calcareous  stone, 
prettily  variegated  with  red  and  yellow.  From  the  breccia 
to  the  bed  of  sandstone  nearest  the  town,  there  is  rather 
more  than  a  hundred  yards ;  and,  from  the  almost  vertical 
position  of  the  strata,  we  have  merely  to  pass  along  their 
edges  to  gain  an  acquaintance  with  them,  which  could  only 
be  acquired,  were  their  position  horizontal,  by  sinking  a 
shaft  nearly  a  hundred  yards  in  depth.  I  used  to  conceive 
of  this  advantage  by  the  ease  I  found  in  running  my  eye 
over  books  arranged  on  the  shelves  of  a  library,  contrasted 
with  the  trouble  I  had  in  taking  them  up  one  after  one  when 
they  were  packed  in  a  chest. 

"For  several  hundred  yards  nearer  the  town  the  beach 
is  so  covered  with  shingle  and  stones,  that  we  see  no  more 
of  the  strata  till  we  reach  a  small  bay,  only  a  very  little 
beyond  the  bounds  of  the  borough,  where  we  find  beds  of  a 
stratified,  grayish  claystone,  lying,  as  nearly  as  can  be 
judged  from  their  broken  state,  in  an  angle  of  about  twenty 
with  the  horizon.  From  the  extent  of  nearly  vertical  strata 
which  intervene  between  them  and  the  granite  rock,  and 
their  comparatively  slight  inclination  from  the  horizontal, 
I  was  led  to  think  that  they  must  originally  have  occupied 
a  very  superior  place,  and  that  their  situation,  with  regard 
to  the  opening  between  the  Sutors,  must  have  preserved 
them  from  the  derangement  of  the  other  strata.  Under 
these  impressions,  I  have  of  late  examined  them  very 
minutely.  As  nearly  as  I  can  judge  from  the  little  of  them 
which  appears  above  the  sand,  they  are  separated  from  each 
other  by  thin  bands,  of  a  grayish  indurated  sandstone,  and 
thickly  interspersed  by  flattened  nodules  of  an  elliptical  or 
circular  form.  On  breaking  these  nodules  across,  I  found 
them  to  be  composed  of  either  an  imperfect  limestone,  or 


GEOLOGY.  431 

indurated  clay ;  and  saw  that  in  the  centre  of  each  there 
was  a  broken  line  of  deep  black,  in  the  direction  of  which 
they  separated  more  easily  than  in  any  other.  I  have 
split  up  several  hundreds  of  them,  in  the  expectation  of 
identifying  their  contents  with  the  remains  at  Eathie,  but 
they  seem  to  belong  to  a  formation  altogether  different. 
I  find  none  of  the  chambered  univalves,  no  bivalves,  no 
belemnites,  but  abundance  of  fish ;  some  scaled  like  the 
haddock,  some  roughened  like  the  dog-fish,  or  shark.  Some 
of  the  nodules  are  sprinkled  over  with  small,  irregular 
patches,  somewhat  resembling  scales ;  in  others  there  are 
confused  masses  of  a  bituminous-looking  substance.  In 
some,  unmixed  with  the  scales,  I  can  trace  what  seem  to 
have  been  the  bones  of  fish  ;  in  others,  what  appears  to  have 
been  wood ;  and  in  one  specimen,  which  I  unfortunately 
spoiled  in  the  breaking,  there  were  the  remains  of  what 
seemed  to  have  been  a  toad,  or  frog.  I  have  kept  for  you 
four  of  the  best  specimens  I  could  find,  and  shall  send  them 
when  I  have  procured  a  few  more  for  you  from  the  beds  at 
Eathie.  Owing  to  the  prevalence  of  sand  and  clay  in  the 
nodules,  the  remains  are  very  imperfect ;  they  seem,  too, 
to  have  been  subjected  to  great  pressure.  I  find  that  the 
purer  the  limestone,  the  more  entire  the  shells,  or  fish, 
which  it  contains.  But  I  am  afraid  you  will  deem  all  this 
mere  tediousness.  The  entire  province  of  geology  is  a 
terra  incognita  to  me,  and  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  now 
describing  to  you  a  part  of  it  with  which  every  geologist  is 
acquainted,  or  a  part  known  to  only  myself." 

END    OF    VOL.    I. 


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